Kertzman waited in a subdued, awful silence.
A long drag on the cigarette and Stephenson resumed in a knowing, patient voice. "Yes, you documented everything, Mr. Kertzman. You documented every stonewalling action, every misdirecting comment or hampering effort, just as you told them you would."
Kertzman closed his eyes.
"Just as they wanted you to do," Stephenson continued. "And it was for this purpose that you were truly selected for the job. They knew that you would not allow personal feelings to interfere in your dedicated, single-minded pursuit of truth. They could, in a sense, bank on your integrity to support their efforts where another man might fail them by concealing information or even overlooking something that would have incriminated his superiors." He paused, continued, "However, with you they knew there would be no danger of that. They knew that you would follow the tracks of guilt to the last man. Even to the desk of your beloved supervisor."
Shaking his head, Kertzman saw the perfection.
"You see, Mr. Kertzman, it is the craft of a spy to use an adversary's own, ah... casual nature, if you will, against him. For you, this means that your adversary would use your own unbending integrity to serve his purpose."
Kertzman released a deep breath, half-turned his head away, remembering the words.
"Make sure you document everything..."
And, "I knew we could count on you...”
Carthwright.
Kertzman understood, at last, why they had picked him: He was the perfect man for the job. So stubbornly determined not to be broken, not to bend backward, he had documented all the denials, all the misdirection, just as they knew all along that he would, had planned on it. He had even seen it, felt it from the very beginning, had sensed that something was wrong but never understood it.
He had looked for something complicated, something buried. That's why he'd never seen it. It never was buried, never concealed. From the very beginning it was too easy to see.
Hiding in plain sight.
Carthwright.
A head high enough to take the heat, heavy enough to call the shots. But still a fall guy, set up from the very beginning to make the sacrifice.
"Don't mess with these people, Kertzman ... Stay away from the money ... There's nothing there ... Stay away from the money ... There's nothing there ..."
The perfect plan.
And, like the perfect fool, he had done exactly what he was supposed to do to make it work. Kertzman knew now what name Acklin would eventually find in the computer search, knew where it would end, even as he knew that it was a sacrificial move. And their sacrifice would work. It would work because he had made it work by documenting every action that would have stalled the investigation, and had even moved beyond it to the place where they always intended for him to go.
Sullen and angry, he looked at Stephenson.
The Englishman smiled. "Yes, Mr. Kertzman. I would surmise that there is no one who is truly on your side."
Kertzman couldn't think of anything to say.
"And yet," Stephenson added, "I believe that Mr. Carthwright is a valuable man. More than likely, he would be a costly sacrifice. And their game is not over. If you and Gage still happen to fall under a sanction, I'm sure other containment plans can be initiated which will save the career of both your supervisor and those around him." He debated. "Carthwright would normally be reserved as an extreme sacrifice for an extreme emergency. Surely, both Gage and you remain primary targets."
Solemn, Kertzman nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly. "If they can still kill me and Gage they might be able to pin it all on him, despite everything I've written in my reports. But if Gage survives, it'll all fall on Carthwright. For containment. It'll never reach who's really guilty. It'll never reach Stern. Carthwright will take it all and live with it."
"Yes," said Stephenson, finishing his cigarette, squinting. "I imagine that he will. Just as I imagine he will do his best to see that you are dispatched before this is over."
Kertzman sniffed, taking it all in. He looked at his watch. One hour till midnight. He released a weary breath. He felt cold, sweaty and grimy from the long flight.
"Alright," he mumbled. "I appreciate your help. And I'd like to pay you back. But it still don't mean I can set up a hit on Stern." He paused. "I am what I am, Stephenson. And I ain't no killer."
Stephenson smiled. "I understand," he said. "We must all live by our personal code of honor. But I am certain that you will encounter extreme violence when you attempt to make the exchange. I am convinced that Stern and his Sixth Order will attempt to kill all three of you."
"Yeah," said Kertzman, tiredly. "I guess. But there ain't nuthin' I can do about that. I'll have to play it by ear. 'Bout like everything else I been doing." He took two steps towards the Mercedes. "I got to get to the hotel."
"Mr. Kertzman?"
Kertzman turned back to see a large black revolver in Stephenson’s hand. The gun was being handed to him, butt first, Stephenson holding the barrel.
"For the exchange," said the Englishman.
Kertzman looked down at the gun, saw the blue-black sheen in the moonlight. He wondered how many guns he had held in his life, how many men he had killed. He felt tired.
Stephenson waited.
Kertzman saw and felt it all, the fatigue and the pain ... Sarah Halder screaming in horror ... Gage, alone and hunted, waging a desperate war against this unimaginable force ... Sandman on the floor ... Barto... Malachi.
And here he was, caught in the middle, feeling like an old man trying to find his way through a darkened labyrinth of lies. Being used. Being fooled. Doing more harm than good.
Losing.
He wondered how much longer he could keep it up.
He gazed steadily at the gun. Stephenson's hand was dead calm.
A man's got to live with himself.
Frowning, nodding, Kertzman reached out with his uninjured left hand, folding calloused fingers around the smooth, polished blue steel.
One last time.
*
Kertzman stared at the balcony doors, closed and curtained, from the inside of his third-floor room at the Medici Hotel on the Via Vittorio.
Midnight. He'd made it, but not by much. In silence and shadows, he waited. Alone. He looked at his watch. Again.
"Midnight," he mumbled. "I know I got it right. I know he said midnight."
A droning ring sounded at the desk.
Face rigid and suddenly tense, Kertzman gazed at the black telephone.
It rang again.
For the briefest moment he hesitated, feeling the tempting and life-preserving impulse to walk away. He hovered over the decision. A moment more passed, and Kertzman walked to the desk, sat down heavily in the chair.
Another ring.
A scarred hand reached out and picked it up.
"Yeah."
"Listen quick," the voice said. "You're under surveillance. You've got to move fast."
Kertzman's face was instantly concentrated. Gage's voice sounded strange, brittle, seeming to come from the depths of something dry and hoarse.
Kertzman grunted that he understood.
"Go north on Vittorio on foot. After five blocks you'll come to a park. The Galoppatoio. Go straight down the middle past the two big bronze statues of whoever those guys are. Just walk to the other side. Go down the alley. I'll meet you there."
"Yeah. I got it," Kertzman rumbled. "But make sure you meet me. I've come too far to miss out on this."
The line went dead.
Kertzman stared at the phone for a solemn, heavy minute. Placed it carefully on the hook. He sniffed, face frowning in deep emotion, hot with a fear that he couldn't quite put down.
This was far out – as far out as he had ever been and even now he wasn't sure what had compelled him to go to the edge. Maybe something had snapped inside of him at the cabin. Maybe it was vengeance at being used and set up. Or maybe it was simply because he was old and tired and pushed too far.
And there was always something else...
A man's got to live with himself.
Kertzman stood up and walked to the bed, grabbing his coat. Finding comfort in the commitment of movement he walked toward the door, relieved that the waiting game had finally passed.
He stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind him. Then he walked quietly down the dark mahogany corridor. He considered the stairs and decided against them. He kept moving toward the elevator.
He was disturbed by something as he walked forward, his mind resisting even as it crossed over him in a mocking wave.
Too quiet. You're too quiet.
And it was too early for stalking, too soon for the kind of silence that comes with the hunt.
Kertzman realized it even as he reached the elevator. He knew the reason, and he tried not to think about it as he pushed the elevator button, his other hand creeping up to find a casual, empty hold on the .44 in his belt.
It whispered to him.
Fear.
Kertzman exited the lobby through the wide double glass doors and was on the street, moving with purpose, crossing the Via Ludovisi and the subway.
Then, out of nowhere, Gage was moving against him. Descending into the subway tunnel, relaxed and quick. Gage cast him a narrow nod. Then Kertzman had turned, too, casually, stepping quickly down the stairs, following.
He didn't look back.
Below, Gage moved through the subway turnstile as the train was loading but walked down the trestle, away from the open doors. He was ahead of Kertzman, who hadn't slowed, still hadn't looked back.
At the end of the underground station was a red metal door that Kertzman knew would be locked. But Gage opened it without hesitation, vanished inside.
In ten seconds, sweat clammy on his back, Kertzman also reached it, turning as he went through to cast a quick, furtive glance back down the trestle.
Coming fast through the turnstile, head turning to scan and locking instantly on him, was a strongly athletic man in a three-piece suit and dark coat. Kertzman didn't recognize him from the cabin. The man paused for a second, saw Kertzman staring at him, froze as if caught.
Kertzman turned away, glimpsed darkness inside, and quickly closed the door behind him.
*
FORTY-NINE
A moonlit howl marked the mist that swept in white winds across the darkened cape, while far below the cliffs, the sea foamed alive in the slashing tide.
Silently at the cliff edge, amidst the wind that moved the misty air, the old man stood; alone and lonely, forlorn in the quiet grave-yard of the coast where only the sea claimed a proud domain.
He watched with quiet solitude as the mist rolled over the waves that struck the shore in a deepening, gathering rhythm, as if to enlarge its imprisoned domain.
Frowning, the man stared silently into the raging sea.
He was old, yes, very old, and it came to him that he had lived too long, and seen too much, but not yet had he seen nature overcome itself. Not yet had he seen the sea claim dominion over the strand, nor the night-light rise to rival the dawn.
Nature remained consistent, each force as unchanging as the level of the sea or the expanse of the sky; it could never be altered or transformed, not by the power of human will or desperate dreams nor even by the bold and ageless fantasy realms of man.
The wrinkled, weathered lines in the old man’s face deepened in a frown. No, the sea had never overcome the shore and never would. And the world was more fortunate for it, for many things were imprisoned in the sea; yes, many ... many things.
Soft movement.
Gazing down at a grave, the old man half-turned his head to the sound, saying nothing.
A voice from the gloom was respectful.
“A ruler should be the last to arrive at a tryst, Holiness. Not the first.”
Clement said nothing.
Atlantean in poise, emerging from the fog like an ancient god striding forth, loosed from the mists of time, Augustus walked forward. Clad to the waist in a thick black vestment, he strode steadily up the small hill, his dark cape billowing in the darkness, moving with the wind.
Turning fully, Clement faced him.
Calmly, regally, Augustus emerged into the moonlight, aquiline features placid and serene beneath the straight white hair that swept back nobly from the high forehead. As he came forward Clement saw the tastefully crafted black pants, loose and vaguely militaristic, with high, tight-laced boots of soft, luxurious leather.
Silent, respectful, Augustus halted before the old man. The moon lit the silver clasps that secured his heavy black cloak.
Augustus gazed down upon a gray-shadowed moss-covered grave. Seeming to forget the old man before him, he bent, reaching down to touch the tombstone with a strong, gentle hand.
“How appropriate that we would meet here,” Augustus said softly. “And how tragic the cause of our gathering.”
Clement was silent.
“I am reminded of the beginning,” Augustus continued. “When you were the priest in yon church along the shore, and I was the apprentice. When I searched only for truth, and you lived only to serve.” He paused. “Before we became enemies, Clement. Before we came to waste our power and our lives in this foolish struggle.”
Clement’s face was suddenly moved, gently emotional. But Augustus failed to notice. He lifted his head to gaze at the moon, now full, white, and low.
“A tragedy,” he added, gazing at the white glowing horizon of night where the moon merged with the sea, “that we were both so unyielding.”
Clement’s voice was soft. “The only tragedy, Augustus,” he replied, steady and deep, “is that you long ago ceased to search for truth. And I long ago ceased to truly serve. We were blessed in both intellect and will, and we might have changed the Church, and even the world, for good. But we lost our way and made our lives a ruin.”
“Nothing is lost, Clement.” Augustus shook his head indulgently, undisturbed. “We have a new beginning. A new chance to find what escaped us.”
Clement laughed sadly. “Fantasies, Augustus. I come here to speak to you of life and death. And you speak to me of fantasies. Is this where your great knowledge and your proud wisdom has brought you?”
Augustus smiled. “Reality is more than men realize, Holiness. They say faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. Well, I would tell you that reality is the substance of dreams, of will and the untapped powers of man.” Augustus stepped forward, his face brightening. “And it is no illusion, Clement! Reality is not the simpleminded metaphysical way of the world, nor the way of meaningless superstition, nor the way of the dying Church. No, my friend, I have found the true and unlimited path to freedom! To everything eternal!”
Clement shook his head, face tightening in pain. “You are mad, Augustus.”
Augustus laughed. “Madness to madmen may be reason, Clement. So which one of us is sane, and which, mad?”
Turning away slightly, Clement gazed down at the distant surf. “Even gold grows dim in the darkness.”
“I am not the fool, old friend, as you claim,” vaunted Augustus. “I know the truth, and I am free by my own divine will! And, if I find the book, we shall all be free. It’s true, Clement, that long ago I ceased to follow the Church because the Church ceased to follow the truth. I have never regretted that choice. And hubris has remained my foe. I am not proud or overreaching to my own destruction. And I will not deny what I have found.” He stepped forward even more. “I know the truth, Clement! I know the truth without God or devils or pagan rituals. I have been to the other side!”
A sudden wind lifted the short white cape around Clement’s neck. “You want what you cannot have, Augustus.”
“Not so.” Augustus raised his hand, gesturing to the sky and the stars that whitely dotted the dome of darkness. “All that there is, is there, Clement, so that it can be kn
own. The Cosmos is all that is, and it is there so that we may know it. There are worlds within worlds, my friend. I am telling you the truth.”
The old man’s voice was resolute. “The secret things belong to God.”
Augustus laughed lightly. “Not any longer,” he replied softly. “There is an end to all things. Even God.”
Clement paused, head bowing above a bitter face, the face of a father remembering the death of a son. “Augustus... my poor, deceived Augustus,” he began slowly, looking up again. “When was it that I destroyed you? What did I do to lead you down this path of madness? Was it in exploring ideas that were beyond you at too early an age? Was it in not being more circumspect in my reasoning? In using too many Jesuit twists of logic in our early words?”
Looking away vaguely, Clement shook his head. He closed his eyes, opened them again with a sigh. “I cannot say. I cannot remember. My sins are my sins. It is enough.” He centered his gaze again on Augustus. “I ask you for the final time. Will you not turn from this task? Will you not surrender your claim over this curse?” A pause. “I know that you do not yet have it, and I cannot allow you to claim it. If you continue, I will be forced to stand against you.”
Augustus’ face bent forward. “The book shall be mine, Clement.”
“No, Augustus! It is evil! It is not just a man! It is a beast! And you are deceived into believing that it is Almighty God!”
Augustus stood squarely before the old man. “Clement, hear me. He is not evil! How can anyone who brings unity be evil? He is good! He is the ultimate superior being! He is God without the mystery! And we must prepare the way for him!”
Persuasively, Clement leaned forward. “Augustus, hear reason from me for perhaps the last time,” he began. “Because after this night you will hear no more. Lines will be drawn. And you will defend yourself against me. If this book were merely philosophy or even ancient literature I would release it to the entire world. Even Simon, whom you killed, would have had no opposition to that. But it is more, Augustus. It is much more. It reveals the family lineage, the time and place where the Beast shall be born. It reveals his very name. Some, if they knew his identity, would prepare his kingdom beforehand, so that he could even enlarge upon the monstrous persecutions which God will so mysteriously allow. Others, such as Israel, if they knew of him, would attempt to slay him. But he cannot be slain by the arm of man. For it is written that he will rise from the sea and conquer, and, yes, for a time he will unite the world in peace. But the peace shall mask his evil, and serve his purpose! And when the peace has passed he will make war against the saints. But he will not overcome until the Messiah returns. That does not mean we cannot stand against him to prevent what suffering can be prevented, to save those lives that can be saved! Listen, Augustus! You must see the reason in this! The Beast is evil but he is wise. Wiser than us. And he has deceived you into believing these illusions! Hear me, old friend. You are deceived!”
Reckoning Page 46
