The Prophecy
( Payne and Jones - 5 )
Chris Kuzneski
PENGUIN BOOKS
The Prophecy
Chris Kuzneski is the international bestselling author of The Lost Throne, Sword of God, Sign of the Cross and The Plantation. His thrillers have been translated into more than twenty languages. Although he grew up in Indiana, Pennsylvania, he currently lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida. To learn more, please visit his website: www.chriskuzneski.com
Praise for Chris Kuzneski
‘Kuzneski’s writing has raw power’ James Patterson
‘Chris Kuzneski writes as forcefully as his tough characters act’ Clive Cussler
‘Excellent! High stakes, fast action, vibrant characters… not to be missed!’ Lee Child
‘Chris Kuzneski is a remarkable new writer, who completely understands what makes for a good story: action, sex, suspense, humour and great characters’ Nelson DeMille
‘A gripping, fantastic read that guarantees chills, laughs and pulse-pounding action!’ David Morrell, author of First Blood
The Last Templar
‘The Lost Throne is one hell of a thrill ride, mixing the intensity of 300 and the adventure of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Not to be missed!’ Vince Flynn
‘Think Indiana Jones and The Da Vinci Code and you’re in Kuzneski-land’ Sunday Sport
‘Chris Kuzneski is a monster storyteller who never disappoints, and The Prophecy is a page-turner extraordinaire, rippling with dark legends, violence and pulse-pounding excitement. Payne and Jones are fabulous!’ Douglas Preston, co-author of Cemetery Dance and The Monster of Florence
‘A reader’s delight from beginning to end. Tautly written, expertly told, smart and exhilarating’ Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author
‘The Lost Throne reads like an AK-47 on laughing-gas, as Kuzneski runs a gauntlet of mystery and mayhem, wisecracking all the way’ John Case, New York Times bestselling author
‘Chris Kuzneski’s The Lost Throne is a lightning-paced tale that seamlessly stitches threads from the past into the fabric of the present. Genre giants Steve Berry, James Rollins and Brad Thor may soon find themselves looking over their shoulders as Kuzneski stakes his claim as the Next Big Thing. A smoothly layered, serpentine and scintillating thriller’ Jon Land, bestselling author of The Seven Sins
The Lost Throne is fast, fun and exciting!’ James O. Born, bestselling author of Burn Zone
‘Sword of God is as convincing as it is terrifying. Riveting and relentlessly paced, here is a novel that will be consumed in one sitting. Chris Kuzneski proves again that he is a thriller writer for the new millennium’ James Rollins, author of The Judas Strain
‘Action packed and full of taut suspense, Sword of God crosses continents in a world-class adventure that will keep you guessing, chuckling, terrified and utterly riveted. Go into lock-down mode. You won’t want to leave your favourite chair until you’ve finished this terrific tale’ Gayle Lynds, author of The Last Spymaster
‘Chris Kuzneski is a fresh new voice you won’t forget’ W. E. B Griffin, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Acknowledgements
As always, I’d like to start off by thanking my family. Without their love and support, I wouldn’t be the writer (or the person) that I am today. Thanks for putting up with me!
Professionally, I want to thank my agent, Scott Miller. Before we teamed up, I was a lowly, self-published author. Now my books are available in more than twenty languages around the world. How he pulled off that miracle, I’ll never know — but I’m guessing incriminating photos and blackmail were involved. While I’m at it, I want to thank Claire Roberts, my foreign agent at Trident Media, who landed my British deal. To say that I’ve been thrilled with Penguin UK would be an understatement. In particular, I’d like to single out my well-dressed editor, Alex Clarke. Working with him has been a wonderful experience.
Next up is my good friend Ian Harper, who gets to read my work before anyone else. Even though he’s strong enough to kill a rhinoceros with his bare hands, his suggestions and advice
Finally, I’d like to thank all the readers, librarians, booksellers, and critics who have read my thrillers and have recommended them to others. At this stage of my career, I need all the help I can get, so I would appreciate your continued support.
Okay, I think that just about covers it. It’s finally time to get to the good stuff.
Without further delay, please sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story…
Prologue
17 June 1566
Salon-de-Provence, France
The letter was written by an apothecary who had gained his notoriety in another field. Knowing the uproar it would cause, Michel sealed it and several documents inside a wooden box. He gave the box to his lawyer on the same day he signed his last will and testament.
The year was 1566. He was sixty-two years old.
He died fifteen days later.
When his possessions were divided among his heirs, the box was not mentioned. If it had been, the rest of his estate would have seemed inconsequential, for the contents of the box were far more valuable than gold or jewels or anything that he owned. Knowing this, he added a secret codicil to his will that only his lawyer knew about. The four-page appendix described in very specific terms what was to be done with the mysterious box and, more importantly, when.
If they completed their task, they would be paid handsomely for their efforts.
If they didn’t, they wouldn’t see a cent.
Amazingly, the chain remained unbroken for over four hundred years. Decade after decade, century after century, they followed their orders like scripture and were rewarded as promised. Wars raged throughout Europe, but somehow the box survived. Cities burned to the ground, but somehow the box survived. No matter what happened, no matter where it was stored, the box always survived — as if it had a guardian angel. Or was protected by magic.
Those familiar with Michel might have suspected the latter, since he had been publicly accused of practising the dark arts on more than one occasion. But those charges never stuck. Partly because of his connection to the queen of France, a loyal patron who believed in his special
Yet most scholars knew his work was anything but innocuous. They realized it was complex, and layered, and intentionally cryptic. The proverbial enigma, wrapped in a riddle, shrouded in mystery. Just like the man himself. Of course, Michel knew how he was perceived, which was why he penned his final letter in straightforward language and sealed it inside the box.
This was his last chance to explain himself to the world.
His last chance to warn the human race.
1
Present Day
Tuesday, 1 December
Geneva, Switzerland
Louis Keller had been waiting for this moment for over thirty years, ever since his dying father had explained what must be done in the distant future. For five generations, their family had been in charge of a mysterious trust fund at Capital Savings, the second-largest bank in Switzerland, and now, after three decades of waiting, the big day was finally here.
Keller would soon be free.
In the beginning, he had viewed his duties with frustration, nothing more than a silly game that his father had forced him to play. But as the years went on, his viewpoint had started to change. What had once been a mild annoyance was now a burden he was forced to bear, a yoke he couldn’t shake. Although he was a healthy man, he’d had trouble sleeping in recent months, afraid he would
Then, and only then, could he sleep in peace.
Wearing a dark suit and overcoat, Keller entered the bank as soon as it opened on the first morning of December. He nodded to the elderl
y guard who had unlocked the door, removed his fedora in the warmth of the foyer, then climbed the stairs to the main lobby.
Although he had visited this building on many occasions, he was always reassured by its architecture. In his opinion, every bank should be built this way: marble floors, stone pillars, and vaulted ceilings. Everything about the place felt solid, as a proper bank should. Like a medieval fortress or a modern museum. Over the years he had spent some time in the United States and was amazed at the inferiority of its banks. Oftentimes they were wedged into local shopping malls or grocery stores, nothing more than plastic countertops and fake wood panelling squeezed into cheap retail space. Nothing about them seemed safe or secure, which probably explained why the wealthiest Americans deposited their fortunes in Swiss banks.
Keller smiled at the thought as he strode past the bank tellers, all of whom were locked behind sturdy iron bars, and made his way towards the safe-deposit vault. It was downstairs, nestled underneath the lobby floor. To gain access to the facility, customers were required to pass through security. Ten years earlier, everything had been done with picture IDs and signature cards. Now the system was high tech, like something out of a Hollywood movie.
As he approached the first checkpoint, Keller removed his leather gloves and tucked them into the pockets of his overcoat. Still stiff from the morning cold, he cracked his knuckles then typed his ten-digit, alphanumeric code into the computer keyboard. The hard drive whirred for several seconds before his password was accepted and additional instructions filled the screen.
Knowing the procedure by heart, Keller ignored the monitor and placed his hand on the scanner, making sure his fingers were positioned in the proper slots. Instantly, a beam of green light, which resembled the lamp inside a photocopier, moved under the surface of his hand. Starting at the tips of his fingers, it slowly made
A split-second later, the electronic lock buzzed in front of him.
Keller opened the door, glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was behind him, then walked inside and pulled the door shut. After double-checking the lock, he turned and faced the marble staircase that led to the vault below. A uniformed guard waited for his arrival.
‘Bonjour, monsieur.’
‘Bonjour,’ Keller said as he pulled out his passport.
The guard inspected the document, compared the name and photo to the information on his computer monitor, then asked Keller to sign the electronic tablet on the security desk. Once his signature was verified, he was finally granted access to the floor.
‘Merci.’
Keller nodded politely, tucked his passport into his jacket pocket, and headed towards the massive vault. Made with steel-reinforced concrete, its walls were three feet thick and virtually
Since the bank had just opened, Keller was the first visitor of the morning. A citrus scent lingered in the air, as if the floor had been waxed the night before. Hundreds of brass locks lined the left-and right-hand walls. Several of the boxes were only as wide as a brick; others were much larger. The biggest boxes filled the far wall. A few of them were so massive they looked like they could hold caskets. Keller had always wondered what treasures were hidden within: gold, jewels, stacks of foreign currency. Whatever it was, he knew it had to be valuable because a box of that size cost thousands of dollars to rent.
By comparison, his box was a bargain. It measured two feet by two feet and never cost him a cent since it was financed by the mysterious
Keller stared at the box wistfully, reflecting on his visits over the years. Then, with a lump in his throat, he entered his combination using the brass dial for the final time.
7… 2… 15.
As the tumblers fell into place, he pulled his safe-deposit key from his pocket and shoved it into the lock. Twisting the key to the right, the metal door popped open with a click.
Keller smiled at the sound; a mixture of joy and relief filled his face.
The big moment was finally here.
After three decades of waiting, thirty-plus years of stress and anxiety and sleepless nights, he was about to fulfil the promise that he had made to his dying father.
After all that time, Keller could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
But not until he followed the instructions within.
2
Saturday, 12 December
University of Pittsburgh
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Dressed in black, the shadowy figure trudged through the blizzard on the nearly deserted campus. Six inches of snow had already fallen, and three more were expected by midnight, thanks to a storm that blanketed the region. Although the evening’s temperature was in the upper-twenties, it felt much colder due to the harsh winds that whipped down the empty streets, pelting everything with ice.
Lowering his head, he continued onward, unwilling to stop despite the tiny crystals that had formed on his hair and clothes. He had lived in the city for several years, so he knew Forbes Avenue was up ahead, and beyond it, his final destination.
Dedicated in 1937, the Cathedral of Learning towers above the University of Pittsburgh (Pitt)
Simply put, it is one of the most breathtaking buildings in the world.
On most nights, the golden lights on top of the Cathedral can be seen for miles, but because of the snow, he could barely see the building from across Bigelow Boulevard.
Five minutes later, he tramped up the stone stairs behind the panther-head fountain, then stomped his feet outside the main entrance of the Cathedral, trying to clean his dress shoes the best he could. After brushing the ice from his clothes and hair, he straightened his bow tie and pushed his way through the giant revolving door. A surge of warm air greeted him inside the building, as did two female students who were manning the registration table.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the blonde. ‘May I take your coat?’
The black man nodded as he took off his overcoat, revealing a tuxedo underneath. He wasn’t used to fancy clothes. In fact, the last time
The redhead looked at the guest list. ‘And you are?’
A voice from the side answered for him. ‘That’s the infamous David Jones.’
Jones turned and snarled at Jonathon Payne. Not only was Payne his best friend, he was the only reason that Jones was there. ‘Don’t start with me, Jon. I’m not in the mood.’
Also dressed in a tux, Payne put his massive hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘What’s wrong, princess? Still pissed about the game?’
‘Of course I’m pissed. We’re playing Duke.’
Payne shrugged. He wasn’t happy about it,
‘But it’s your event,’ Jones complained. ‘You should’ve cancelled it.’
Payne laughed at the thought. Five hundred of the area’s wealthiest people were gathered inside for a black-tie gala. The goal was to raise money for local charities and the continued renovation of the Cathedral of Learning. ‘This isn’t the type of event that you can cancel.’
‘Well, the least you could’ve done is asked for better weather. I froze my ass off outside.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I’m telling you, I had to walk a mile from my parking spot.’
‘Why in the world did you do that?’
‘Because the street outside was blocked off.’
‘Yeah, blocked off for valet parking.’
‘Seriously?’ Jones demanded.
‘Seriously,’ Payne said, laughing. ‘Come on, you should know better than that. Rich people don’t walk anywhere. Especially not in a foot of snow.’
Jones glanced at the two female students, who
‘Son of a bitch,’ he mumbled to Payne. ‘I’m so cold I can’t feel my nuggets.’
‘Well, don’t look at me. I’m not going to feel them for you.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I should hope not,’ Payne teased. ‘Heck, you’d have to donate a hell of a lot of money for me to even consider something like that.’
‘Knock it off, Jon. I simply meant…’ He paused in mid-sentence, realizing there was no reason to explain himself. ‘Which way to the bar?’
Payne pointed to the right. ‘It’s over there.’
‘Thank God. Me and my boys need a drink. Wake me when your speech is over.’
Jonathon Payne was the CEO of Payne Industries, a multinational corporation founded by his grandfather, a self-made millionaire who had gone from mill worker to mill owner in less than thirty years. Payne had shunned the family business as a youngster — opting instead for a decorated career as a Special Forces officer — but returned home when his grandfather passed away and left him the controlling interest in the company.
In the past, he had used blades and guns to get the job done.
Now he used his quick wit and killer smile.
As host of the charity event, Payne took the stage in the centre of the Commons Room, a four-storey Gothic hall in the belly of the tallest academic building in the western hemisphere.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said as he adjusted the microphone to accommodate his height, ‘my name is Jonathon Payne. Thank you for braving the cold and coming out tonight.’
Dressed in tuxedos and formal gowns, his guests turned towards the podium where Payne waited to kick-off his fundraiser. At six foot four and two hundred and forty pounds, he had the
‘I realize most of you are here for the free cocktails, so I promise I’ll be brief.’
Payne smiled as he gazed at the sea of faces in front of him. Normally the great hall was filled with Pitt students doing homework or studying for exams. However, since this was the last day of classes for the fall semester, Pitt’s chancellor Mark Nordenberg had given Payne permission to hold his event where it would have the most success — right across the hall from the Nationality Rooms, one of the main beneficiaries of that evening’s fundraiser.
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