“Mr. Byrne. The bombing at your uncle’s church was a very professional operation, and the people behind it are not lacking in resources. Do you really think, after going to all that effort, they’ll just shrug their shoulders and forget all about it?”
Images from the bayou flashed in Daniel’s mind…The man lighting a cigarette by the Suburban in front of Pat’s house, the other man jerking against the window bars as electricity fried his body, the fine mist of blood that hung in the air where Samson Turner’s head had been a second earlier…
Hillborn turned to Pat. “Let’s hear your opinion, Mr. Wahlquist. As an executive protection specialist, I mean. How do you estimate your chances of keeping Reverend Trinity alive tomorrow?”
“Our chances? I honestly don’t like them a whole bunch,” said Pat. He sipped his root beer and looked straight at Daniel.
“Hire a professional, you should take his advice,” said Hillborn. He took another swig of Abita. “Look, Daniel, I’m sure you’re trying to do what you think is best, but your good intentions are going to get your uncle killed. You too, in all likelihood. You’re a smart guy, you must be able to see the truth of that. Twenty professional bodyguards couldn’t keep him alive at a public rally. Face it: you can’t protect him. We can.”
Daniel couldn’t think of anything to say, so he took a long pull from his bottle and waited for the pitch he knew was coming.
It came. “You can still save your uncle,” said Hillborn, “by convincing him to turn himself over to us. We’re offering a way out.”
“And what happens to him?” said Daniel.
“Well, after we debrief him, he’ll get a new name, a new identity. The US Marshals will protect him, set him up in a new location. We’ll let him keep enough of his fraudulently earned wealth that he’ll be able to live out the rest of his life in the lap of luxury. Best of everything. Of course he’ll never preach again, never get anywhere near a television camera, he’ll have to stay completely under radar.” Hillborn smiled. “But he will get to live.”
Daniel shook his head. “He won’t take that deal. See, the thing you guys don’t understand…he’s not running a con. I know, I know,” he held up a hand, “I felt the same way not so long ago. But he sincerely believes that God is using him to bring something important into the world, and for what it’s worth, I’ve also come to believe it. Regardless, he fully understands the risks and he’d rather die than turn his back on his obligation to see it through. I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to wait and talk to him after the speech.”
“If he’s still alive.”
“Yes.”
Hillborn and Robertson exchanged a look.
Agent Robertson fixed Daniel with a piercing stare and said, “Special Agent Hillborn has shown you the carrot. I’ll show you the stick: Tim Trinity was involved in the deadly bombing of an oil refinery and the rigging of the Georgia State Lottery, and that’s just in the last week. We will prosecute him in federal court and he will spend the rest of his life in a Supermax prison in the middle of Bumfuck, Minnesota, where he will be confined to an eight-by-eight windowless cell, all alone, twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day, every day, for the rest of his life.”
“He had no part in the refinery accident, or the lottery. None. He’ll beat it in court.”
“Don’t be dense,” snapped Robertson. “Trinity stood in front of the cameras in Arkansas and freely admitted to being a con artist for the last forty years. He’s been running a massive fraud scheme to the tune of millions. He will be convicted of multiple felonies, and he will go to prison. We’ll see to it. And he will never come out again. Ever. That’s the stick. If I were you, I’d take the carrot.”
“In case you haven’t been watching the news,” said Agent Hillborn, “Atlanta is in tatters. At last count, 167 dead bodies in the parks and on the streets, well over a thousand assaults, 323 rapes and God knows how many more unreported, property damage in the tens of millions. So far. Next year’s budget for schools and homeless shelters, wiped out. And you think God wants Tim Trinity to bring all that to New Orleans?” He shook his head. “Hasn’t this place seen enough tragedy? Bottom line: your uncle is a walking public disturbance, and we are not having it any longer.”
“Senator Guyot said—”
“Senator Guyot wants to be president, he can say whatever he likes. I’m telling you: Tim Trinity will not be making any more public speeches, tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year.” He put a business card on the table. “I could arrest you right now, Daniel, but that wouldn’t save your uncle, and more importantly, it wouldn’t save New Orleans.” He drank the last of his beer. “Think about what we’ve said, and take our offer to him.” He stood up. “If we don’t hear from you by midnight, the carrot goes away and all he gets is the stick.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes after the FBI agents left. Finally Pat said, “I’d bet dollars to donuts there’s now a GPS tracker on our car, courtesy of our new friends from the Justice Department. I’ll drop you at a bus stop, dump the car in a lot somewhere, and we’ll meet back at the ranch later.”
“OK.” Daniel drank some beer and they sat in silence some more. The silence was growing heavy, uncomfortable. Daniel said, “Go ahead, hit me.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it.”
“When did that ever stop you?”
“Fine. If the government decides to put him away for life, he’ll go away for life. Believe me, I know how these guys work—they’ll find a charge and make it stick.” Daniel didn’t answer. Pat sipped his root beer. “You need to convince your uncle to take their offer.”
Daniel shook his head. “That dog won’t hunt, man. Forget it. He’s willing to die tomorrow, you think prison is gonna scare him? I already told him, I made it abundantly clear we’re playing exceptionally long odds. He understands.”
“What’d he say?”
“Said just do our best to get him to the podium, and whatever happens after that is exactly what’s supposed to happen. He’s gone all fatalist on me. And the truth is, after everything that’s gone down, I can’t say he’s wrong.”
“But what’s to be gained? Even if nobody puts a bullet in his head, the feds will snatch him up before he gets to the podium.”
“Well, I’m just gonna make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“And how you gonna do that?” said Pat.
Daniel signaled the bartender for the check. “I have no idea.”
The bell jangled above Daniel’s head as he opened the door and stepped inside the voodoo shop. Priestess Ory was behind the cash register, ringing up a nervous Yankee couple. She glanced his way, then turned her attention back to her customers and gave the young man his change. “Use it in good health,” she said.
The young woman holding the paper bag said, “Thank you, we will,” and punctuated it with an unnecessary giggle.
Daniel passed them as they left the store. The bell jangled and the door closed, and they were alone.
“May I interest you in a tarot reading, sir?” Ory deadpanned. “Some love potion perhaps? Money-drawing powder? A protection-from-enemies mojo?”
He deserved that, and acknowledged it with a nod of his head. “Fair enough,” he said. “Guilty as charged, Your Honor.” His smile went unreciprocated. But she looked more troubled than angry.
“Been near a television in the last hour?” she said.
“What is it this time? Another prediction come true?”
“No, it’s Memphis. The tent city in Riverside Park. After Tim went on CNN last night and announced he was in New Orleans, the mood in Memphis fell pretty low. And when the heat rose today, it turned to anger and…well, things turned ugly. Then the police moved in, in full riot gear, and proceeded to make the ’68 Chicago convention look like a love-in.”
“Jesus.”
Ory shuddered visibly. “Way it looked on television, it was almost a pleasant surprise to hear that the dead only numbered in the teens.”
<
br /> Agent Hillborn’s promise rang in Daniel’s ears: Tim Trinity will not be making any more public speeches, tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year.
“I realize I’m not in any position to ask you for favors, Mama Anne,” he said. “But we really do need your help.”
Ory looked at him for a few seconds and then offered a gracious smile that showed only a little reluctance around the edges. “We’re on this road together,” she said. “In my dream, you told me to remember that.” Her smile warmed. “I haven’t forgotten, and neither should you.”
The sidewalks were as packed as midtown Manhattan at the height of rush hour. The police kept everyone moving along, but this being the Southland, everyone still shuffled at a pace that would drive any self-respecting New Yorker to murder.
The sun was sinking in the western sky, but it still must’ve been ninety-five degrees with the additional heat generated by so many bodies. And Daniel couldn’t take off his windbreaker without exposing the gun. So he just kept pressing onward, sweating his way out of the Quarter as quickly as the crush of pedestrians would allow.
He stopped at the Everything Shoppe on Canal Street and cooled off while picking up supplies. Sandwiches and Zapp’s chips for dinner, cigarettes for Trinity, a bottle of red wine, and some energy drinks for morning. Stepping back outside with his groceries felt like walking into a hot, wet blanket.
He spotted a man unlike anyone else on the sidewalk, watching him from under a palmetto. The man was in his late sixties, with thinning hair, perfect posture, and a Savile Row suit that easily cost eight thousand dollars but didn’t need to brag about it. A silver and black Rolls Royce Phantom sat idling at the curb behind him.
The man approached, and Daniel caught a hint of his cologne as he got close. He smelled like old money. What some people still insisted on calling good breeding. He said, “Congratulations. You’ve kept to the path, and I daresay you’ll know the truth before much longer.”
You’ve kept to the path…you’ll know the truth. The words resonated in Daniel’s ears like an echo. Walk the path, find the truth. The note that had been waiting for him at the Westin, written in an elegant hand on expensive stationery.
“Papa Legba, I presume.”
The man smiled. “Quite.” He gestured to the Rolls. “Allow me to offer you a lift back to Saint Sebastian’s. It’s cool inside, and we can chat along the way. You must be very uncomfortable in that jacket.”
The man poured thirty-year-old Macallan Single Malt into a couple of crystal glasses, handed one to Daniel, and settled back into the deep green leather seat as the Rolls Royce gently rocked into motion. He said, “We’ve been most impressed by you, Daniel. You’ve shown all the makings of a top field operative.” His accent was maddeningly neutral. Probably an American who’d spent many years living in England and, to a lesser extent, continental Europe. Or maybe a Brit who’d moved to America decades ago and purposely lost the boarding school accent of his youth.
“Who’s we?” said Daniel. “And for that matter, who the hell are you? I think Legba wants his name back.”
The man’s smile was utterly confident. A smile that would seem arrogant on a younger man, but on this man signaled the calm perspective that comes with a lifetime of wide experience. “We are an organization you’ve never heard of: the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation. My name is Carter Ames, and I’m the managing director. And as you already know, we’ve been your ally from the start.”
Daniel tasted the scotch. It went down like liquid silk. “Why? What’s your interest here?”
“The mission of the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation is to bring the truth to light, so the public can make informed choices about our civilization’s future,” said Carter Ames. “Unfortunately, there are other people, equally powerful, who do not trust the public with the truth. So we struggle against each other. It is a game we’ve been playing for many years, a game that may never end. But it must be played, lest we lose what’s left of our freedoms.”
“Do they have a name, these powerful people you’re struggling against?”
“Indeed. They call themselves the Council for World Peace. But don’t let the name fool you.” He sipped his scotch. “Oh, they might accept world peace, but only on their terms, under their control. Peace without freedom. For us, that is too high a price. We do not consider slavery, however peaceful, to be a viable future.”
“Slavery? Come on.”
“Of course they don’t see it as such. They prefer words like security and stability. But it all comes down to control, in the end. The council’s roots—and the foundation’s, for that matter—go back to the Middle Ages, albeit both under different names. The council began simply as a network of spies—a freelance espionage agency, if you will—gathering intelligence around Europe and the eastern trade routes and selling what they learned to monarchs and popes and wealthy merchant families, greasing the wheels of commerce. But over time their actions went far beyond intelligence gathering. They grew ever more powerful and became their own biggest client, really.”
“And how did the foundation begin?” asked Daniel.
“We were one of their clients—a huge merchant shipping dynasty, with interests spread across the civilized world—one of the most powerful families in France at the time. But this family held some sense of noblesse oblige, and as the heirs saw what the council was becoming, how it was concentrating power into fewer and fewer hands, they established the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation to thwart the council.
“And what the hell does this have to do with my uncle?”
Carter Ames shook his head. “What’s happening with your uncle, as significant as it is, is but one more battlefront in a war that has been raging for centuries. There have always been people who think like us and people who think like them, fighting behind the scenes of world events. What I’m trying to tell you, Daniel, is that the world as you know it is just what you’re allowed to see. The council and the foundation have left their fingerprints on almost any major world event you care to mention. The Kennedy assassination? Sure, but also his rise to the presidency. The alliance between the United States and Russia to stop Hitler? Yes, but also the alliance between Hitler and Hirohito. Even the American Revolution. I’m saying that history, as you know it, is just the edited version.”
“OK, thanks for the drink, Mr. Ames,” said Daniel, “but that sounds all kinds of crazy. You expect me to believe that these two organizations have been shaping history, and the world has never even heard of them? I don’t buy it.”
Carter Ames smiled placidly. “I don’t expect you to, not yet. But consider this: if you’d done the job the Vatican had sent you to do, the world would never have known about the Trinity Phenomenon. And that would just be one more piece of history kept secret.”
The truth of it hit Daniel like a gut punch. If he’d not discovered the alterations of the transcripts Nick had given him, the world would never have known. How many other world events, what other strange phenomenon had been successfully covered up and kept secret from the public? He felt like a door had just been cracked open to another world, and the opening was too narrow to see more than a sliver of what lay beyond.
“I need more,” he said. “What’s the bigger picture, the truth you’re trying to expose?”
“You’re not quite there yet, Daniel,” said Carter Ames. “If and when you do get there, I think you will want to join us, but it isn’t something to be taken lightly. While the hours are brutal, the pay is excellent and the job comes with a first-class expense account. You will likely not live to see old age, but you might. And whenever you die, you’ll die knowing that you’ve helped save the world from another Dark Ages.” His face darkened as he spoke. “That’s why I became involved. I wanted to be able to look my granddaughter in the eye knowing I’d done everything I could, on my watch, to make things better. Or at least to hold back the darkness.”
Hold back the darkness… The words sent a chill through Daniel.
&nb
sp; Carter Ames put his glass down and reached into his breast pocket. “At any rate, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Right now you need to focus your attention on keeping your uncle alive.”
“Is Father Nick part of this?” He had to know.
“At most, he may have helped them unwittingly,” said Carter Ames. “He’s not a member of the council. But Conrad Winter is. And we know they have others in the Vatican.” He pulled a photograph from his breast pocket and handed it across. “Anyway, this is the man you need to focus on.” The man in the picture was bald, muscular, probably in his late thirties, with humorless eyes and thin lips. “It was taken at the airport yesterday. We spotted him coming off a flight from Montreal, kept him under surveillance until this afternoon. He slipped away from our operatives a couple hours ago. Just melted into the crowds. We have no leads on his location.”
“Who is he?”
“Ask your friend Pat.” The car came to a stop at the curb in front of the Saint Sebastian’s Boys Athletic Club. The driver got out and opened the coach door for Daniel.
“Wait a second,” said Daniel. “You know Pat?”
“Oh, Pat’s been in the game for years,” said Carter Ames. “As an ally, thankfully. We were very pleased when you brought him into this. Do give him my regards.”
Daniel locked the door behind him and stepped into the empty gym. He dropped the keys in his pocket and began spreading the groceries out on the edge of the boxing ring.
Pat entered the gym from one of the back rooms and made straight for the potato chips. “Jalapeño,” he said, ripping the bag open and inhaling. “My favorite.”
“We need to talk,” said Daniel, reaching into his back pocket for the photo Carter Ames had given him.
The Trinity Game Page 28
