They found nothing.
The priest went upstairs and stood in the doorway of Connolly’s study. He must surely have missed something.
Of course. It was right before him.
The cursor of Connolly’s desktop computer was still blinking.
The priest sat in the Archbishop’s chair and swiveled it to face the computer screen. The message displayed read as followed:
UPLOAD 100% COMPLETE
The priest smiled, though because of his distorted facial muscles, the effect was that of a malevolent grimace. He tapped a few keys to see where the email and its attachment had been sent. The email recipient had been [email protected]. The attachment had been named TrumpetingPlace.
The priest looked into Connolly’s document file, but TrumpetingPlace.doc had been erased.
Mikail was the Arabic name for Michael. And St. Michael was mentioned in Revelation 12:7.
The priest glanced at the text Connolly had been reading moments earlier.
Blessed is the one who reads the words of the prophecy . . . the time is near.
Yes, the time was near, although the world was ignorant of its sin and imminent spiritual destruction. The priest needed whatever was in the file. He would therefore have to find the document — and who it had been sent to.
If Archbishop Connolly was not disposed to tell him, there were other methods that he could employ to get the information.
Ways that could cause even a young, healthy body to plead for mercy let alone an old and decrepit one.
6:38 a.m., September 12
Archbishop Connolly’s Residence
Manhattan, New York
Archbishop Connolly’s broken body was discovered at his residence on the grounds of St. John’s Cathedral early the next morning by a young priest who served as his assistant.
Connolly had been crucified.
Mounted on a twelve-foot high wooden cross in the foyer, Connolly’s body hung from iron spikes driven through his wrists and feet. The Archbishop’s head hung forward, his dimpled chin resting against his chest. Thin, ragged clumps of gray hair clung to his liver-spotted scalp. No angels had saved the Archbishop.
The assistant dropped to his knees. Tears streamed down his face as he retched violently onto the marble floor. A bible verse from the Book of Psalms sprang into his mind:
A band of evil men has encircled me,
They have pierced my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones;
People stare and gloat over me.
The young priest crossed himself and called the police.
Midtown Manhattan
September 12
Father Emile Deschamps Reynard sat in the front seat of the black Cadillac Escalade, which was stationary in a parking garage beneath one of the city’s steel and glass skyscrapers. The tinted windows prevented anyone from seeing the priest sitting in the passenger seat, one of his acolytes behind the steering wheel. The other acolyte sat in the rear, a titanium briefcase open on his lap.
“Have you made any progress, Brother Antonius?” asked Reynard. The grotesque aspect of Reynard’s features was accentuated by a look of restlessness and concern.
“I’ve accessed the servers of Connolly’s Internet Service Provider,” Antonius replied. “Seanet. It’s a local ISP that serves part of the east coast, from Maryland to Massachusetts.”
“Then it should be a simple matter of pulling the email out of cyberspace,” Reynard said with unmistakable irritation.
Antonius pushed back the cowl covering the top of his head, revealing a scalp that was clean-shaven. His light blue eyes peered at the laptop resting on his knees from above an aquiline nose and long, angular jaw. His skin was pale, and many in his order thought he resembled a statue when he remained motionless for any length of time.
“I’m afraid that the email was already retrieved and downloaded,” Antonius said.
Reynard turned sharply. “It should still be accessible!”
Antonius nodded. “This is true, my master, but once accessed, the email was shunted to a subdirectory co-located on a server in a different region of the country.”
“Can you locate the other server?” asked Reynard.
“I’m trying now.”
Several minutes elapsed while the acolyte tapped the keys before him. Reynard was becoming more impatient with each passing second.
“I have it,” Antonius said. “I’m opening the attachment now.”
He squinted at the screen. “The body of the email itself is blank. The correspondents are obviously friends, and one may deduce that the recipient was expecting this file.”
Reynard rolled his eyes at the acolyte’s statement of the obvious.
Antonius sighed. “I was afraid of this. Once the attachment was opened, it reverted to encrypted formatting symbols on the server. I have no application that can translate it.”
Reynard sighed heavily. He ran bony fingers through his short black hair.
“Can you at least find out who the recipient is?” asked Reynaud. “Trace the email address to its owner.”
“Yes, my master.”
More minutes elapsed before Antonius spoke again.
“Here is the name associated with that email account,” Antonius stated, turning the titanium case so that it was visible to the occupants in the front of the Escalade.
The other gray-clad acolyte now spoke for the first time since they had parked in the underground garage. His features were dark and harsh, like those of a battered prizefighter.
“This person is dangerous,” declared Brother Gerasimus. “We dare not confront the person who opened that email.”
“Other than actually visiting this individual, do you have some other means of knowing what was in the attachment?” asked Reynard. “Or has your renowned asceticism, modeled after your patron saint, made you clairvoyant?”
“No, my master,” replied Gerasimus. “Forgive me.”
Gerasimus reminded himself that he should never underestimate the powers of his master. Father Reynard — French for “fox” — was aptly named.
Reynard sat up straight and faced forward, staring into the garage shadows resolutely. His body was rigid, his mind focused. “We shall go to the house and appropriate the email attachment. We must locate the bones of Michael the Archangel. I don’t have to remind either of you of the prophecy.”
Gerasimus nodded somberly. “That the end of the world will be preceded by the discovery of the bones.”
“Correct,” said Reynaud. “The end of the world as we know it.”
7:09 a.m., September 12
Archbishop Connolly’s Residence
Manhattan, New York
The blue and white squad car rolled to a screeching halt in front of Archbishop Connolly’s residence. Connolly’s assistant quickly escorted two uniformed officers into the home.
“My God!” exclaimed a heavyset officer, gazing at Connolly’s crucified body. The second officer moved to the side of the foyer and vomited.
“Okay, everybody,” said a gravelly voice behind the three figures. “Let’s show some professionalism here. Get a grip, gentleman.”
The young priest wheeled around to see a forty-something plainclothes officer standing behind them. He was dressed in a blue suit, and the knot in his thin black tie was crooked. The priest could see through the open front doors that other officers were already unrolling yellow crime scene tape across the front of the residence.
“Forgive me, Father,” said the detective. “I meant no disrespect, but my men should be able to handle things a bit better. I’m Detective Eddie Zoovas.”
For the next thirty minutes, Zoovas asked the priest all of the mandatory questions: When had the body been discovered? Did the Archbishop have any enemies? When was the last time the Archbishop had been seen alive? Zoovas jotted answers down in a small spiral notebook.
“Who would do such a thing?” asked Connolly’s assistant.
Zoovas shrugg
ed. “Don’t know at this point, Father. My guess is that we’re looking at some kind of cult activity. It’s not as uncommon as you think, although . . . ”
Zoovas looked at Connolly’s body, which was being photographed and scrutinized by the Medical Examiner. “Although this is one for the books.”
“What are the police going to do?” asked the assistant. “I will need to make a report to my superiors.”
“We’re going to canvass the neighborhood, ask questions, search the house. The usual.” Zoovas faced the priest squarely. “Can you keep a secret, Father?”
“I . . . uh . . . yes . . . I suppose I can. What are you getting at?”
Zoovas rubbed his chin, which hadn’t yet felt a razor this morning. “I might put in a call to some people my father works for. He was a cop here in New York many years ago. He now works for a woman who has an interest in very unusual matters. But you never heard me say that, okay?”
“Yes, of course,” answered the priest. “I appreciate anything you can do.”
Zoovas began searching the premises. He would find no clues.
Chapter 8
Training Gym #4
Aboard the Alamiranta
Quiz and DJ circled each other with catlike agility, their eyes locked on each other’s every step. DJ had been trying to teach her colleague and lover various moves common to MMA, or Mixed Martial Arts, which incorporated the techniques jiu-jitsu, karate, judo, kickboxing, and other forms of hand-to-hand combat. Today, she was instructing the computer specialist in taekwondo.
A former German covert operative, the beautiful and dangerous DJ usually worked with Quiz in the Ops Center aboard the Alamiranta, the floating headquarters of Titan Global.
Titan Global was an international business empire run by Catherine and Demetrius Caine. A corporate conglomerate that owned many subsidiary companies, especially in the oil and gas industry, Titan Global was also the world’s largest private military and intelligence contractor, and utilized special-ops teams for covert missions, such as surveillance, hostage extraction, regime infiltration, data gathering, search and rescue, and numerous other paramilitary operations. Its missions were sometimes initiated within Titan Global itself. Other times, clients ranging from corporations to sovereign governments contracted for the use of the most highly-trained special ops force in the world.
DJ raised her right knee to her waist and kicked her leg into Quiz’s chest like lightning. A front snap-kick. The young man reeled, stumbling backwards before regaining his footing.
But not fast enough.
DJ, long silky hair trailing behind her, had already spun around and settled into the classic taekwondo horse-riding stance, legs spread slightly apart.
“Easy does it, okay?” said Quiz.
DJ, her enchanting blue eyes narrowed in concentration, threw her right arm forward, striking Quiz with a fore-fist hand attack. The knuckles of her clenched, rigid hand caught him in the shoulder.
DJ smiled. “If I would have aimed for your face, you’d have a broken nose.”
Quiz raised his knee, angled his body by ninety degrees, and attempted a side-thrust kick. DJ merely ducked to the left, grabbed Quiz’s leg, and threw him off balance. He tumbled unceremoniously to the mat. She then dropped to her knees, left forearm held tightly against the man’s throat.
“Will you yield to me?” DJ asked.
Quiz couldn’t answer. His airway was cut off.
“This is where I want you,” said DJ in an almost savage voice.
She lifted her arm, leaned forward, and kissed her colleague on the mouth. Simultaneously, Quiz ran the palm of his right hand along DJ’s thigh.
“Someone is going to catch us one of these days,” Quiz said nervously as he tried to wiggle free.
“The possibility of getting caught is half the fun,” DJ proclaimed. “Don’t you feel the adrenaline?”
DJ stood up, extending a hand downward to her opponent. Quiz reached up as his lover pulled him to his feet.
“Yeah, I feel it,” he said. “But maybe Mrs. Caine wouldn’t like her employees to mix business and pleasure.
DJ put her hands on her hips and frowned. Many of Titan’s elite warriors had formed amorous relationships.
“It’s nobody’s business but ours,” DJ said, breathing hard.
Quiz melted. DJ’s chest heaved as she drank in oxygen with each breath. Her workout clothes were drenched with sweat. She smelled absolutely delightful, and her raw, animal appetite was irresistible to Quiz.
“My quarters,” DJ commanded. “Now.”
It had not been a request, but rather an order.
Quiz loved it when she gave him no choice.
Whittington Manor
Long Island, New York
For the past year, Charles Whittington had been building a quantum computer, one designed to predict probable events based on data he had gleaned from the news. All of reality was just that: probability. He now sat at his computer, typing up notes for future reference. That’s when perimeter alarms stationed on the grounds of the manor sounded.
Charles sighed. “Neighborhood ragamuffins again,” he said. “Curious about the man they think is a wizard living in the giant house they love to spy on.”
Charles rose from his seat and went to the second-floor monitoring room. Flatscreens provided views of every hallway in the mansion as well as strategic locations in the gardens and pathways on all sides of the manor.
Shadowy figures were approaching from the greenhouses in the rear. Charles couldn’t make out any detail, so he flipped a switch, activating the outside floodlights.
“That’s odd,” he said to himself. “Not that I wasn’t warned by the voice.”
He flipped another switch, releasing George and Gracie. Despite their names, the Rottweilers guarded the manor with ferocity when summoned. Abruptly, the barking ceased and the shadowy figures disappeared.
A pacifist by nature, Charles nevertheless kept several tranquilizer guns in a safe on the first floor.
He retrieved one of the non-lethal guns and hurried back to the lab where he’d been working. From there, he could bring down security doors that would seal off the basements beneath Whittington manor.
Once again in his main lab, Charles sat at the computer complex and began to type in the code to bring down the two-inch metal doors. He wasn’t able to finish.
“I think you should access your email first,” said Father Reynard, stepping from behind a mainframe at the rear of the lab. He was flanked by two gray-clad acolytes.
DJ’s Room, Crew Quarters
Aboard the Alamiranta
Although DJ was Quiz’s lover, his oldest and dearest friend was Dante Alighieri, author of the Divine Comedy.
The two had met under circumstances that were, not surprisingly, quite unique.
Orphaned at the age of six, Quiz was frequently left to his own devices. Since his grandmother equated his silence — indeed his absence — with the child behaving himself, he spent most of his hours during the next decade in his grandfather’s library — one of many — that housed thousands of leather-bound books. Running his fingers along their spines and embossed covers had been a sacred ritual for the boy.
It was Dante’s incredible tale of a descent into the underworld that had touched Quiz’s soul the most. The language and imagery came alive for the young man and spoke to his soul.
So did Dante himself.
The disembodied spirit of Dante, or perhaps Quiz’s delusional version of him, spoke in his mind daily. Dante had been Quiz’s constant companion since he first opened the pages of the Divine Comedy; he was a strong, invisible presence in Quiz’s life. He often hovered, unseen, behind his left shoulder. Over time, their banter became an intellectual — and at times humorous — debate on all things present in the boy’s consciousness.
Quiz lay beside DJ, breathing heavily. He glanced at the bite marks on his right shoulder.
* I don’t really understand what you see in yo
ur lusty encounters with this woman. *
Lust, Dante. Lust.
* Yes, yes, of course. But is there not more to the act of coupling? *
I guess there could be. For now, I like her, and she likes me.
* Like? I liked certain kinds of food, but it didn’t
cause me to form an obsession with it. *
It’s the twenty-first century, pal. Not the fourteenth. The times they are a changin’.
* Please! Don’t tell me you’re about to start
singing songs by that Dylan fellow again. *
Then stop hassling me.
* Have you never felt sexual ecstasy that occurs
within the bonds of true love? *
Quiz’s mind made no reply for several seconds.
No. To be truthful, I haven’t. Sex is sex.
* How misinformed you are! *
Quiz looked at the bare shoulders and satin-smooth
skin of DJ.
I’ll stay misinformed for now, thank you very much.
Quiz rolled onto his side and stared at the back of his slumbering lover. He wondered if Dante was right. He had never known true love.
Chapter 9
Artifact Room #4
The Gith Institute
Angela Marshall was a grad student in anthropology at New York University. Her short, dark brown hair complimented her dark brown eyes. With full red lips and eyebrows darker than most, she was a rare beauty that attracted the advances of a great many male grad students on campus. She regarded most as either geeks or lecherous young men with the hormones of a fourteen year old.
Angela made extra money by serving as part-time curator of the many antiquities of philanthropist Winton T. Gith. Gith gave millions of dollars to charity yearly. His benign vice was to collect everything old and rare that struck his fancy, which also included forgotten or esoteric information. His appetite for knowledge was insatiable.
Bones of Angels Page 3
