The Secret Prophecy

by Herbie Brennan

  Em shook his head vigorously. “No.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she’d found out either. But he was sure now that she had found out something. You could tell from her expression.

  But Charlotte was determined to tell him anyway. “He had it password protected—the whole PC. I tried everything I could think of. Grandma’s maiden name . . . his birthday . . . his dog’s birthday . . . You’ll never guess what it was.”

  Em didn’t want to guess. “What was it?” he asked woodenly.

  “Mum’s first and middle names: Alice Marilyn. Who’d have thought it after she divorced him? Anyway, once I was into his computer, I found the emails.”

  “The emails?” Em echoed.

  “From your dad to my dad, except I didn’t know it was your dad then: they were just signed G.M. for Grand Master. Themis business. Dad had a whole folder of them. They were encrypted, but that was just for sending them across the internet. Dad had the encryption key; and since he didn’t want to go through the trouble of decrypting each one separately, he’d set his computer to decrypt them automatically. So I was able read them. Dad can be pretty stupid about things like that sometimes. Anyway, that’s when I found out you were being used as bait for this whole Section 7 thing. I couldn’t believe it when I read about the vaccination plan—”

  Em made one last attempt: “The fake vaccination plan.” But it was as much as he could do to keep the question mark out of his voice.

  “It’s not fake,” said Charlotte simply. “It wasn’t just in the emails about Section 7; the whole plan was outlined in other emails. It was one of the things that worried my dad so much. He was completely against it, but not completely enough to betray the Knights. He satisfied himself with protesting about it, and they happily ignored him.”

  The perimeter fence meandered so much that they had almost lost sight of the house now. But they were still walking on well-watered lawn, well watered and well manicured—a token of how costly maintaining the temporary home of Em’s High Knight of Themis father was. After a long, thoughtful pause, Em shook his head. “You’re sure my father was involved?” It sounded stupid even as he said it. If he believed Charlotte, his father was the instigator of the entire plan. If he believed Charlotte, his father was a monster.

  Charlotte caught on at once. “They’re going to kill millions and millions of young people like us, millions and millions of children even younger, with some ghastly, miserable disease,” she insisted. “You have to listen to what I’m telling you, Em!”

  The edifice Em had been building in his head suddenly collapsed. His mind, as it sometimes did, was working at high speed, making connections, examining things said, recognizing his own weaknesses. He knew he’d often been in denial, stubbornly believed what he wanted to believe. The question was, had he gone into denial now? There were things she said that he knew to be true. Their fathers were liars. They had lied about their secret lives, lied about Em’s father’s death. Was it possible, as Charlotte claimed, that they were lying about the vaccination program as well? Em couldn’t believe it. Em didn’t believe it. All the same . . . “All right,” he said.

  “All right what?” Charlotte demanded.

  “All right, I hear you,” Em said. “I’m not sure of anything yet. But there’s somebody else who knows the truth, and I’m prepared to try to get it out of him.”

  She looked at him almost suspiciously. “Who’s that?”

  “Victor,” Em told her.

  Chapter 46

  Em brought it up so casually that it must have seemed of no importance to him whatsoever. “Did you get anything interesting out of him?”

  Strangely enough, his father knew right away who he meant. “Victor?”

  “Yes,” Em confirmed. “He just came into my head for some reason.” It never did to underestimate his father’s intelligence; but when he was distracted, as he was now, you could often slip things past him. Em had managed that trick lots of times in the days when his father was just a humble university professor.

  Professor Goverton glanced up from the papers on his desk. “Security is questioning him. The process may take some time.”

  “Yes, I know,” Em said, trying to sound cheerful, even though it was the last thing he felt. It was, he’d decided, all a question of appearing his old annoying self, pretending everything was the way it used to be when he’d interrupted University Dad preparing his next lecture. That way he could put his doubts on hold. And he did have doubts—doubts about everything Charlotte said, doubts about what his father had told him, doubts about Victor. But at least if he could see Victor one more time, something might be said to resolve some of the doubts; and if it was, he could take action. He was already prepared to take action. “I just wondered if they’d got anything out of him. About Section 7 or whatever.”

  “Not much—it’s early days,” his father grunted. His eyes flickered back toward the papers.

  At one time Em would have taken the answer at face value. Now he found himself considering it more carefully, wondering if his father was lying. Not that it mattered: the question was no more than an opening gambit. But an analysis of the answer—dear God, he was beginning to sound like his father—was revealing in its own right. It showed, for example, that Victor was still at the foundation. And still alive, a small voice whispered in Em’s head. The thought would have been inconceivable only a month ago. He could no more have considered his father a murderer than walked naked on the moon. But that father, ironically, was dead now. “Won’t you have to hand him over to the police or something?” Em asked innocently.

  “Hardly,” his father told him distractedly, turning his full attention back to his papers—a familiar gesture of dismissal.

  This, Em knew from past experience, was the time to pounce. “Maybe I could get something out of him.”

  “Mmm?” his father murmured.

  “We got on well,” Em said. “I mean, genuinely. I think he sort of liked me.” The trick was not to push it too far. So long as his father split his attention, he was vulnerable. Em smiled, stretched, and pushed back his chair. “I thought if I went to see him, brought him a little gift or something, got chatting . . . he might let something slip. I mean, you could give me a list of things you want to find out, and I’d try to work them into the conversation. Subtly.”

  His father looked up again. The focus in his eyes told Em that this was the crunch. Professor Goverton, Grand Master of the Knights of Themis, was no longer distracted. The question was, would he buy Em’s suggestion? “You know,” his father said thoughtfully, “that might be an idea—nothing else is producing results.” He shook his head suddenly. “Not the list of things we want to know—he’d spot what you were after at once; just a relaxed, friendly chat. And you’re young. Men always underestimate young people. He might well relax his guard. Congratulations, Em; that is a very good idea indeed if you’re willing to carry it through.”

  He wrote something on a small sheet of letterhead, folded it in half, and pushed it across the desk. “That’s your authorization. Do you know where our security division is?”

  Em shook his head. “No.” He kept his face studiously blank, but behind it he was buzzing with excitement.

  “My secretary will direct you,” his father said dismissively. “Ask for Kardos—that’s K-A-R-D-O-S, Stefan Kardos; he’s the Bederbeck security director—and show him the note. He’ll arrange it from there. You’ll get as much time as you need with Victor, so don’t rush. The longer you take, the more likely he is to relax and make a slip.” He held Em’s eye. “I want you to report back directly to me. You understand that? Not to Kardos, even if he asks you questions. To me.”

  Em fought desperately to keep his face impassive at the mention of the name Kardos. What if the man did work for his father? He had only Victor’s word for it that he was a trained killer, and Victor had proved to be as much a liar as everybody else in Em’s life now. “I understand, Dad.” He hesitated long enough to push Kardos
out of his mind, then asked, “How much does Victor know? About you? I mean, about me? You know what I mean—does he know what happened?”

  “Nothing,” his father said. “Security has told him nothing. It’s their job to ask questions, not to answer them.” He shrugged. “You’re a smart boy; you decide how much—or little—to tell him.”

  “Good.” Em nodded. He picked up the folded paper, slid it into his jacket pocket, and headed for the door. As he closed it behind him, he noted that his unsuspecting father had gone back to the papers on his desk.

  

  Em walked through the revolving door of the security building, took in the situation in the lobby, and kept walking until it spilled him outside again. Not for the first time, his heart was thumping like a jackhammer. The man talking to the receptionist was all too familiar. It was the man who carried a sidearm to his father’s funeral, the man on the train to Paris, the man at the café table with the coffee in his lap, the man Victor claimed was a killer. The receptionist listened to him politely. The receptionist called him Mr. Kardos.

  Em did not break stride until he was back in the diner with Charlotte. His mind was made up now.

  “Do you know if the foundation has a bookshop?” he asked before she could say anything.

  “There’s one behind the reception building—I noticed it coming in.” She attempted a small, puzzled smile.

  “Does it have a good philosophy section?”

  Charlotte’s smile turned to a frown. “How should I know?” Her frown deepened. “What do you want with a good philosophy section?”

  Em looked down at her soberly. He felt wired, yet strangely at ease. At least his basic conflict was resolved now. Charlotte had gone a long way toward shaking his confidence in his father’s story. What had just happened completed the job. During one of their cozy little chats, his father had assured him that he’d been followed by someone from Section 7. Kardos was living proof that this was simply a lie. And if his father was lying about one thing, the likelihood was that he was lying about everything. Which meant that Em knew how to act now. “Just something I forgot,” he told Charlotte. “I wanted to bring Victor a little present. I’ve just thought of a book that might do very nicely.”

  Stefan Kardos gave no hint of having ever seen Em before. Em for his part kept his face expressionless during the initial introductions and handed over his authorization without explanation or comment. Kardos scanned the sheet of paper, mumbled “Excuse me,” and thumbed a button on his cell phone. With the phone to his ear, he stared blankly at Em, listened for a moment, then cut the connection. “He says you’re to go ahead. Denise will show you where.” He hesitated. “What’s in the package?”

  “Present for Victor.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Not at all.”

  Kardos ripped the paper without a further by-your-leave. A puzzled expression crossed his features as he contemplated the gift inside. “Do a lot of reading, does he?”

  “I think he’ll enjoy this one,” Em told him deadpan.

  Kardos flicked open the book, then shook it to dislodge anything that might have been slipped between the pages. Nothing had. He opened the inside front cover. “What are these?”

  “Chinese coins.” There were three of them taped to a card stuck inside the book.

  Kardos stared at them for a long, sour moment. “Now they’re even exporting money.” He closed the book with a snap and handed it back to Em. “Okay,” he said.

  They had Victor in a cell. Denise opened the door with the familiar swipe card, then stood back to allow Em to enter. “Aren’t you afraid he might try to make a break for it?” Em asked her curiously. For such a supposedly dangerous man as Victor, the security seemed lax, although there had been several locked doors to pass through before they reached this one.

  “I’m armed and authorized,” Denise told him. She was a pretty girl and neatly dressed, and looked to be in her twenties.

  “Authorized to what?”

  “Use lethal force,” she told him without a flicker of expression. “Knock when you want to come out; I’ll be right here.”

  The cell was small and windowless, lit by a fluorescent strip in the ceiling. Victor was sitting on a bunk bed set against one wall. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, and the bruises on his chest were clearly visible. He glanced up as Em came in. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Em waited for the door to close behind him, then looked around for somewhere to sit and eventually found an upright wooden chair that he moved beside the bed. “I suppose this place is bugged?”

  “You can rely on it.”

  “Cameras or mikes?”

  “Both, I expect. You would know that better than me.”

  Em ignored the jibe: Victor was bound to be suspicious. “Actually, I don’t know any better than you, but I expect you’re right.” There was a purple bruise high up on Victor’s left cheek that looked both fresher and more painful than the bruising on his body. His questioning must have taken a violent turn. Em looked away quickly. “I brought you a present.” He held out the book.

  Victor’s expression underwent a change as he took it. Something close to a smile crawled across his lips. “A new translation of the I Ching! Well, well, well. They took mine away.”

  “Might be a blessing in disguise,” Em murmured. He made the effort to catch Victor’s eyes and hold them. “I think this one may be better.”

  Victor stared back at him, face now expressionless. It was impossible to tell whether he got the message. Eventually he said, “Perhaps it will. But not many things I want to know in here. Except how I can get out. Don’t suppose you can help me on that?”

  Perhaps the I Ching can help you there, Em thought, but was too cautious to speak the words aloud. Instead, he said, “I couldn’t find an edition that included yarrow stalks.”

  “Very few do,” Victor told him.

  “This one has three coins taped to the inside cover. I looked at the Introduction, and I think you can use them.”

  Victor nodded. “The Coin Oracle can be very useful,” he said. “Perhaps not as good as the yarrow stalks, but easier to use and a lot faster.” He was holding the book but looking at Em. “It’s very popular in China because of the time it saves.”

  “I definitely think you should use it,” Em said with as much emphasis as he dared.

  But Victor only tossed the book casually onto the bed. “I’m not sure I care much what you think,” he said bluntly. “Until I find out why I’m locked in here while you’re free as air and wearing new clothes.”

  “That’s a difficult one, all right,” Em agreed. He realized all of a sudden that he hadn’t thought this visit through. It was obvious that Victor would want to know what was happening, and Em wasn’t at all sure how much he should tell him. Victor was bound to realize he’d been trapped by the Knights, perhaps even assumed Em was a prisoner as well, until as he said, Em turned up in new clothes, friendly with the jailers.

  Em hesitated. His instinct was to tell Victor everything, to try to reestablish trust. But that could be dangerous, considering the fact that their conversation was almost certainly being recorded. Besides, how could Victor trust Em if Em told him he was the son of the Themis chief? He decided to compromise. “The Knights trapped us,” he said soberly. “But I expect you guessed that already.”

  “The possibility did occur to me. Especially after that clown Kardos gave me this—” He indicated the bruise on his face. “I’d like to meet the bastard who was giving him his orders.”

  That bastard would probably be my father, Em thought. But his father’s complicated resurrection was the last thing he wanted to go into. “They know you’re head of Section 7,” he said instead.

  Victor didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed. “I assumed that must be what they thought.”

  “What have you been doing?” Em asked. “Sticking to name, rank, and serial number?”

  Victor nodded. “Somethi
ng like that.”

  Em was fast running out of things to say without getting himself into muddy waters. “How are they treating you?” he asked a little desperately. There were people listening, people watching, people almost certainly thinking that, as an interrogator, Em was a complete idiot. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his father would probably be taken in. His father had advised him to put Victor at his ease.

  Victor looked at him in surprise, then said, “Apart from the beatings, rather well. The food’s good.”

  “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “Clever boy,” Victor nodded. “I always said you had a brain in your head.” He shifted his position slightly, drawing one knee up onto the bunk bed. “I notice you didn’t answer my question.”

  “They gave me the clothes,” Em said.

  “That’s only half the answer,” Victor said. “And not even the important half.” His expression had changed, taking on a threatening aspect. “How come you’re free to come and go when I’m only free to get beaten up?”

  “They didn’t realize I was helping you,” Em said. It sounded feeble as he said it, but it was the only half-decent lie he could think of—one he could easily explain to his father if he had to simply by claiming he was only trying to gain Victor’s confidence. He caught Victor’s eye again and held it. “They don’t realize I’m trying to help you now.” Victor was bound to ask how, and Em didn’t know what to say to that. He’d been digging a hole for himself since he came into this place and seemed incapable of preventing himself from digging it deeper. This was what happened when you didn’t prepare.

  But Victor didn’t ask him how. Instead he said, “By advising me to cooperate with them, I suppose?”

  Em grabbed the lifeline. “Something like that.” He decided to cut his losses and stood up. Victor either had the message by now or he hadn’t. No further amount of waffling from Em was going to change that. He turned toward the door and heard his own voice say “I’ll see if I can get my father to stop the beatings.” Em froze.