Gith had thousands of first editions of the greatest literature mankind had produced. He even owned a First Folio by Shakespeare. In his artifact rooms were the fossils of whales and dinosaurs and ferns from the Jurassic period. He owned asteroid fragments, moon rocks, and priceless jewels from the kings and queens of England. He had insect collections, Egyptian and Greek maps of the world in ancient times, and certain spars from the Mayflower. Indeed, Gith owned relics and curiosities from almost every area of history and science. The Smithsonian had offered him a fortune for the entire collection, but Gith had declined.
Marshall was currently researching two rather unusual areas for her boss: angel encounters and the Avignon Papacy.
The Avignon Papacy dealt with a sixty-seven year period during which popes resided in France rather than Rome. Angela, who was in love with intellectual pursuits and all things historical, found the subject extremely interesting.
Studying angel encounters was not very scientific in nature, but it nevertheless held equal interest for the grad student. Over 400,000 people worldwide claimed to have been visited by an angelic creature. It was a cultural phenomenon, which put it well within the purview of an anthropology student.
What fascinated Angela most was the numerous types of encounters that had been reported. Many people claimed that the angels they saw in their homes looked very traditional: male or female beings with wings and robes. Some glowed as if bathed in supernatural light, while others looked very corporeal. Some were pure beings of light, and still others were shining humanoid creatures that bore no resemblance to angels portrayed through the centuries in art.
Most astonishing of all, millions reported that the angels who spoke to them came in the guise of ordinary human beings: nurses, delivery men, clerks, or everyday people walking along the street, all of whom had some special message or gift of healing for the person undergoing the encounter.
Angels apparently came in all shapes and sizes. It was Angela’s task to categorize as many of these encounters as possible. She herself was an agnostic, but Gith paid her well, so she was more than happy to immerse herself in the research.
And it beat the hell out of dating geeks.
Whittington Manor
Long Island, New York
Charles had been tied by two acolytes to his desk chair. Several other acolytes were now searching the mansion rooms above them. Reynard paced back and forth and stared without emotion at the scientist. Charles could see that his face was scarred from severe burns, and the corner of his mouth was turned up in a perpetual sneer.
“Explain what we are looking at on the computer screen,” Reynard ordered.
A few hours earlier, Charles had made a promise to the voice in the empty hallway. He was not to cooperate with men who might suddenly appear at his residence. He didn’t realize when the warning was issued, however, that the men would be intruders and use high-tech electronics to disable the manor’s sophisticated security system. The priest and his cohorts had slipped in through a little-used delivery door while Charles had been getting his dart gun.
Charles remained silent. A promise was a promise.
“I find you vexing, Professor Whittington,” declared Reynard.
Brother Antonius administered a stinging slap across Charles’ face. The Professor’s red cheek burned from the physical insult.
Reynard sat at one of Charles’ computers. Brother Gerasimus had hacked into Charles’ email account with little effort and retrieved the TrumpetingPlace file. Reynard scrolled through the document, which was comprised of photographs.
“I’m looking at wings,” said the priest. “That much I know. What fascinates me is that some of the pictures look almost . . . bleached out. I can barely see the skeletal outline. Others clearly show the articulated structure of a wing, but the bones themselves are black against a white background.”
Gerasimus faced Reynard. “I think I know what we’re looking at, my master.”
Reynard waved his hand in an impatient gesture, indicating that the acolyte should say what was on his mind.
“This is very similar to the phenomenon of the Shroud of Turin. The features of Christ evident on the Shroud are only seen clearly in photographic negatives. The same appears to apply to the photographs of the Archangel Michael.”
“Why is this the case?” Reynard asked.
Gerasimus tilted his head as he responded. “Many scientists who have studied the Shroud believe that such a phenomenon could only be caused by an incredible burst of light that emanated from the body of the man beneath the Shroud.
Reynard now understood. Believers in the authenticity of the Shroud claimed that a pulse of light from the body of Christ occurred at the moment of His resurrection. Obviously, Michael had given off a similar burst of light, though the precise circumstances that had accompanied such a luminous event were unknown. These light emissions apparently affected nearby objects and their photographic sensitivity.
Reynard shot Charles a sarcastic smile. “I don’t suppose you would like to shed some light on this matter, Professor, if you’ll excuse the pun. When did the Archangel emit such a bright pulse of light? These pictures were sent to you by Archbishop Connolly for a reason. Don’t feign ignorance. There may be hell to pay. And again, excuse the pun.”
Charles remained silent. Someone was standing behind him. Suddenly, small bolts of lightning seared his vision. Sharp pain shot through his head. He had been beaten with a blunt instrument.
Charles Whittington blacked out.
The Armory
Aboard the Alamiranta
Of all special ops used by Titan Global, Titan Six was considered its most elite tactical force. Michael Hawke, former member of Force Recon in the U.S. Marines, headed Titan Six and was known as Hawkeye. Team members included Shooter, the ebony-skinned sniper from the Caribbean; Gator, former Army Ranger and machine gunner; Pyro, Japanese-born expert in ordnance and explosives; and Tank, Hawke’s younger brother and second-in-command of Titan Six.
The team regularly trained in Shotgun Alley, a holographic training simulator located in the ship’s vast Armory. Any scenario in any location could be duplicated by the sophisticated holographic computer displays.
Hawkeye was leading Titan Six in a training mission simulating urban warfare in Bangkok. Hawkeye and Shooter were facing off against Tank and Gator. Pyro was in sickbay getting a check-up by Dr. Grace Nguyen, who administered the team certain nanobot injections (among others) to give the team enhanced strength, as well as heightened awareness for all five senses. The enhancements were part of Titan’s BioMEMS System, which could also cause cells to release naturally-occurring chemicals when the body was injured or in distress.
Shooter and Hawkeye crouched low behind an overturned city bus in the back alleys of the thriving Asian metropolis. Other vehicles, burned or vandalized, were scattered on the street. It was midnight, and the sodium vapor streetlamps cast eerie shadows on the scarred cityscape.
A barrage of bullets punched holes in the roof of the bus as Gator opened up his SAW, an M249 Squad Automatic Machine Gun. The weapon produced rolling thunder, which reverberated between the buildings on either side of the street.
From his position behind the undercarriage of the bus, Hawkeye lobbed two grenades down the deserted street towards his mock-enemies. Safety protocols were engaged in Shotgun Alley, although battles fought there felt, sounded, and smelled like genuine combat. The computer also allowed direct hits to knock the combatants to the ground with considerable force. Holographic enemies, on the other hand, could be vaporized by any number of weapons.
“Advance!” ordered Hawkeye.
Breathing hard, Shooter and Hawkeye raced from behind the bus. Tank and Gator charged into the street from flank positions, surprising the team leader and his world-class sniper.
Tank engaged his brother, grabbing his arm and flipping him on his back. Tank’s agility made the two-second maneuver a blur as his brother spun through the air.
“That’s called heat!” said Tank triumphantly. “And this is the kitchen. Recall that old saying?”
Hawkeye sprang to his feet and lunged at his attacker. Tank tried to grab Hawkeye by the wrist, but Hawkeye threw his elbow hard against Tank’s jaw, driving the soldier back three paces. Dizzy, Tank fell to his knees.
“Seeing stars yet?” Hawkeye asked his brother. “Remember that old saying?”
“I could use some help here!” Shooter called out.
The young sniper was pinned to the ground by Gator.
Tank was on his feet again, and Hawkeye was already moving aside while simultaneously driving his left leg into Tank’s gut with a knee-high power kick. Tank tumbled sideways and once again was reacquainted with the broken asphalt street. Tank coughed, wheezing. The wind had been knocked from his broad, muscular chest.
Shooter shot Hawkeye a quick, pleading glance. “Are we partners or not?”
“I’m engaged at the moment,” Hawkeye announced.
Shooter jabbed Gator’s jaw with her fist while rolling from beneath his shoulder hold.
“Pray for victory, Shooter,” Hawkeye said. “Maybe say a rosary or two. I see you sneaking into the ship’s chapel from time to time.”
Shooter grabbed her assault rifle, wheeled around, and struck the side of Gator’s head with the butt. Stunned, the gunner recoiled in surpise.
“Damn, lady!” yelled Gator. “You pack a mean punch.”
Shooter turned back to face her leader, her eyes intense. “And so what if I do get on my knees once in a while?”
Hawkeye laughed as he watched Shooter wipe away a trickle of warm blood from her lips. “Geez, don’t be so sensitive.”
“I guess it’s too macho to call upon God,” Shooter said.”
“Wait a second, you two,” Tank said. “Let’s keep the gloves on.”
Machine gun fire erupted from both sides of the street. A dozen Asian commandos emerged from doors and alleyways. Each carried an assault rifle. Their rapid-fire rounds peppered the street with bullets.
“We can make nice later!” barked Gator, grabbing his SAW. “Let’s handle the shit in the street first!”
Gator opened up his M249 again, cutting down commandos as if he were shooting tin cans on a fencepost. The enemy bodies glowed briefly before the holographic displays vaporized into a shower of bright particles, like New Year’s Eve sparklers.
A bomb exploded in the next block. The ground shook, knocking all members of Titan Six to the asphalt. A yellow-orange fireball blossomed in the sky like a deadly sunflower. A shockwave of intense heat rolled over Titan Six three seconds later.
“Everybody up! ordered Hawkeye. “Pair off as before and reload!”
More commandos flooded the street, guns spitting lead into abandoned cars or tearing chunks from the bricks of nearby buildings. Hawkeye threw a concussion grenade into the next block as he and Shooter knelt in the nearest alley to their left.
A siren unexpectedly went off.
“Attention,” said an automated voice. “Training simulation suspended. Repeat: training simulation suspended. Michael Hawke, please report to Mrs. Caine in the Gallery.”
Shooter, her rifle lowered, stood and began walking to the exit of Shotgun Alley. She turned and glared at Hawkeye. “You need to learn some manners, Michael.”
East 76th Street
Manhattan, New York
Father Reynard and his acolytes had not been the only ones searching for information on the Archangel Michael. Beta Team had been looking for the bones of Michael for many years, although the agenda of their superiors was not quite the same as that of Reynard. Such a find would be the most important in all of Christendom, and they’d even worked with the brilliant Charles Whittington in their search.
But they had been followed by five of Reynard’s acolytes. Having yielded no information, they’d been blindfolded and turned over to laymen working in a warehouse in Manhattan. They had been beaten, and when they still remained silent, they’d been handcuffed. Hoods were placed over their heads.
They were now seated, although they had no idea where they were. The three men of Beta Team assumed they were being brought to yet another location for interrogation. A loud engine roared to life, and their bodies rocked gently from side to side. Were they in the back of an eighteen-wheeler?
A loud horn blasted, and all three realized at once that they weren’t on the highway. The unmistakable odor of dank water was in the air.
“Get up!” ordered an angry male voice that sounded as if its vocal cords had been scraped raw by years of smoking the fabled red and white cowboy killers.
Large calloused hands hauled the three agents from their sitting positions and led them up a short metal stairway. A damp chilly wind blew over their bodies as their captors removed the hoods and blindfolds.
They were on the deck of a tugboat. To the rear were the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the bejeweled skyline of New York City. Ahead was total darkness. The tug was plowing roughly through choppy, black waters into Upper Bay, directly below Manhattan. The air on deck smelled of oil and smoke from the tug’s noisy engine room. The sounds of bustling New York Harbor faded with each passing second.
The three men looked at each other in alarm, faces white with panic. Their mission had been a sacred one. They were now to become martyrs, although they would not be burned or crucified. They would die “Gangland-style.”
Men in oil-smeared jeans and T-shirts, muscular biceps adorned with lurid purple ink, began winding chains around the body of each agent.
Weights.
From ankles to shoulders, the men were bound tightly by the heavy metal links.
“God help us!” screamed one of the agents. “Please! Have mercy!”
Beta Team was thrown into the bay, one at a time. The men descended into the darkness, holding their breath as their metal burial shrouds carried them deeper and deeper.
A minute passed, then two. They could hold their breath no longer. The reflex to inhale was too strong. The foul waters from the East River above, mixing with the salty, cold Atlantic, filled their lungs. A few small bubbles escaped their mouths and drifted to the surface, invisible in the churning wake of the tug.
They had been searching for an angel. If such a being was anywhere near them on this night, it had not intervened on their behalf.
It took only a few minutes for the lifeless bodies of Beta Team to reach the bottom of the bay.
Chapter 10
The Gallery
Aboard the Alamiranta
The Gallery aboard the Alamiranta was Catherine Caine’s two-thousand-square-meter private sanctuary. It was a three-tiered hall bordered by glass walkways, staircases, and walnut and mahogany bookshelves. A tasteful, elegant combination of library and museum, rare books and artifacts from around the world adorned the space. At its far end was a conference table.
Hawkeye sat at the table. Quiz, Michael Zoovas, and Mrs. Caine were waiting for him in their respective seats. Zoovas was the Alamiranta’s main security chief. Also present was a cleric in a black suit and white collar. A gold pectoral cross rested against his chest. He was in his late fifties, and his short salt and pepper hair crowned rugged, handsome features. He looked more like a middle-aged GQ model than a member of the clergy.
Catherine Caine was a tall blond with a shapely build for a woman in her fifties. Her exotic beauty, however, never overshadowed her game face when business demanded her full concentration. At times, her angular features could look almost severe in their appeal.
“This is Archbishop Peter Donovan of the Anglican Church,” Caine said by way of introduction.
Hawkeye squirmed uneasily in his chair. As evidenced by his exchange with Shooter, organized religion made him uneasy. Any religion, in fact, made him uncomfortable. He was a man who lived by the hard realities of combat. He dealt with what his eyes could see and nothin
g more.
The death of his father the previous year had left him even more disposed to regard the concept of a benevolent God as a fairy tale.
“Archbishop Donovan and the Church of England have previously used the services of both Caine Industries and Titan Global,” Caine continued. “He is here to ask our help for a rather unique mission. I told him he can expect our full cooperation.” Caine looked squarely at Hawkeye as she spoke. “Archbishop, I’ll let you explain the matter more fully.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Caine,” the Archbishop said affably.
He focused his attention on Quiz and Hawkeye.
“Please direct your attention to the video screen behind the conference table,” the Archbishop instructed his listeners. “The face you see, and not a pleasant one at all, is that of Father Emile Deschamps Reynard. He was formerly the Catholic bishop of Genoa until five years ago, at which time he was removed from that position. Later, he was excommunicated from our brothers and sisters in the Catholic faith.”
The scarred face of Reynard stared from the screen as if it had been photographed for a police mug shot.
“What did he do to piss — excuse me, to offend — the Catholic Church?” asked Quiz.
Donovan’s features had grown more serious by several degrees.
“When Reynard was Bishop of Milan, he used to preach sermons on angels. Specifically, he began to tell his congregation that he and his little sister, Francesca, had seen an angel when they were very young. The angel allegedly saved Francesca from drowning. This raised a few eyebrows at the Vatican, but it was not considered an egregious offense. Angels have always figured prominently in Christianity.”
* To doubt the existence of angels would be very foolish. *
I need to concentrate right now. Let’s listen to the man.
* Very well, but watch your language. *
“Bishop Reynard became positively obsessed with the subject of angels,” Donovan explained. “He preached of nothing else. He conducted retreats and seminars on angels, teaching people how to communicate with their own personal guardian angels. In fact, he declared to the diocese of Genoa that he was in constant contact with his guardian angel. He said he was God’s special instrument, and that the Lord was speaking directly to the church through his sermons. That’s when Rome summarily removed him from office. He was stationed in a small parish, but he continued to rant about the world of angels. He was sent to a psychiatric facility, but when released, he resumed his tirade. That’s when he was excommunicated.”
Bones of Angels Page 4
