by Rachel Lee
He felt as if he were caught in a spiderweb, and struggling only mired him deeper. Somehow he had to find a way out of this trap. But until he knew just what the trap was, and what purpose it served, he had no way to know the right direction in which to move.
He was a very unhappy man.
Polls be damned.
"You should be grateful, Mr. President."
From behind him came the all-too-familiar voice of his National Security Advisor. Had the man come to gloat?
"Grateful?"
"Yes, sir. This buys us time. Time to think about what to do in Pakistan. Time to explore other options, if there are any. It takes the political heat off of you, Mr. President, and gives you the opportunity to make a cool and rational decision. One you'll be comfortable with."
Rice pivoted his chair and faced Bentley. "Yes? How can that be? Nine men could not have pulled off all of the Black Christmas attacks. We both know that. If you were trying to placate the American people, you can take it from me—this won't do it. They will figure out that these nine men didn't work alone, and they'll do it faster than you can spread butter on a biscuit."
"I'm not concerned about the American people."
"Obviously not."
Bentley, who was actually a short and stocky man, nevertheless seemed to tower over Rice. "I have to look beyond our borders, Mr. President, to the future of the entire planet."
"And using nuclear weapons is for the benefit of the people whose lives will be erased in an instant?" Rice asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.
"Mr. President," Bentley said, "it's time for you to learn to take the broader view. There is more at stake than the future of this country. And we can't prepare for that future if we feel shackled by domestic politics. This raid loosens the shackles, sir."
Perhaps, Rice thought. Perhaps it loosened one set of shackles. But he knew that Bentley represented another, and those were growing ever tighter.
Vatican City
Giuseppe Veltroni's stomach burned after the phone call from Ahmed Ahsami, and it was still burning when he entered the private apartment of Pablo Cardinal Estevan, the society's titular head.
The cardinal had cast aside his official uniform in favor of slacks and a smoking jacket. Before him on the coffee table in the deceptively unofficial sitting room sat a small glass of amber liquid. The cardinal neither greeted Veltroni courteously nor offered him a drink—something that deepened Veltroni's concern and caused his stomach to roil even harder.
"This Ahsami," the cardinal said without preamble, "may be in the process of becoming a serious hindrance to our goals."
Veltroni, who had long since resigned himself to the fact that the Stewards of the Faith held aims of which he was unaware, nevertheless could not let that statement go without response. "Ahsami is merely the man with an idea. Saif Alsharaawi, The Sword of the East, will continue without him. It has to, for it is the only way that Islam can make peace with the West."
Cardinal Estevan reached for his drink and sipped deliberately. The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece now seemed loud. Veltroni found himself listening to the seconds of his life ticking away. Wasted time, sitting here indulging this cardinal who was dragging out this interview simply to enjoy Veltroni's discomfort. May the Lord forgive him, but he had never liked Cardinal Estevan.
"We must preserve the faith at all costs," Estevan said finally. "That is our entire purpose in founding this society."
Really? thought Veltroni, who was at that very moment wondering if the cardinal spoke the entire truth.
"You must tell this Ahsami," said Estevan after another deliberate sip, "that we had no inkling of this raid in Vienna. Tell him we regret that someone else became involved. That he would be wise to look at his other allies."
Something icy seemed to wrap itself around the monsignor's heart. "Other allies?"
One corner of Estevan's mouth lifted. "You surely did not think that we alone held an interest in Saif Alsharaawi."
"If not, then why wasn't I told?" Anger was beginning to build in Veltroni. "If I am to be effective, I must be informed."
"You receive all the information you need. Whether this Ahsami chooses to recognize it or not, there are other actors on this stage." Estevan put up a hand to silence Veltroni's objection. "Who those actors are, and what their roles were in Black Christmas and Vienna, are not our immediate concern. But they are Ahsami's concern, and he would be well advised to deal with them."
Estevan shook his head and for the first time said something that Veltroni could truly agree with. "We want peace, Monsignor. Peace for the world. We have no desire to create Armageddon. But others do. And they must be rooted out. We had hoped Ahmed Ahsami might be the man to ally with. His influence in the Islamic world was growing, and it may yet grow again. And he has even less reason to desire war than we do. Isn't that what you said to me?"
"Yes. Yes, I did."
"And you still believe it?"
"I do."
"Then speak to him again. Tell him to look back to the thirteenth century. There he will find his enemies, the ones who betrayed him."
"I need more than that!"
Again Estevan lifted a hand. "It is all I can give you. Now, how is your priest doing in Guatemala?"
"I haven't heard from him yet."
"Then he is dead. We must send someone else. The Codex must not fall into the wrong hands. It is more important than you can conceive, Monsignor, and not just for the story it might tell."
"I have wondered," Veltroni said carefully. "Since the Church has no official doctrine on whether our Lord might have married and sired children."
"Of course not," Estevan said with a shrug. "We don't know, and even if the Christ were married, it would not affect our faith. No, Monsignor, this Codex is far more dangerous. If it falls into the wrong hands, there will be war. A war more terrible than the world has ever seen."
Estevan leaned forward, staring intently at Veltroni. He emphasized his next words by tapping the tabletop with the tip of his index finger. His episcopal ring flashed fire. "It is for God to decide when the end of humanity will happen, not for man. But there are some who would make the decision themselves."
Veltroni was shortly out on the street again, even more troubled than before. He had been told to send Steve Lorenzo to Guatemala in order to prevent the discovery of the Magdalenian secret. And he had done so. But Estevan was right. The exposure of that secret, if it were true, would cause only small ripples. So the Codex represented something far more. Something he could not imagine.
Being in the dark was not something he liked. But it was in the dark he was going to have to function. As for his friend, Steve Lorenzo…Veltroni whispered a silent prayer. Dear God, let Nathan Cohen have spoken the truth when he said Lorenzo still lived.
There were some things Veltroni's conscience could not have borne, Lorenzo's death among them. No amount of ritual penance and forgiveness from his confessor would erase such a stain. Thinking back over his conversation with Cardinal Estevan, the monsignor wondered if he had become involved in things not even God could forgive.
Croton, Italy, 460 B.C.
His days and evenings swarmed with students; time to simply reflect had become a rare and precious commodity for Pythagoras. He was getting on in years, and, perhaps because of a life spent traveling all over the known world to learn from the wisest of men, he tired easily these days.
He no longer cared to become involved in politics, although wherever he traveled he seemed to become mired in them…even here in Croton, where he had finally fled to escape the ugliness in his home of Samos.
But tonight his thoughts were far from Samos, or his students, or even the current invasion of Croton, which he thought would prove to be minor compared to other invasions he had endured during his life.
No, tonight he had no thought for his students, nor for the past, nor for the war. Tonight, hidden away in the small cave he had turned into a hermit-age, he was looking a
t a sealed metal box that had been delivered from an old friend in Egypt. The friend had promised to send the contents to him if ever he thought he could not keep it safe.
Now it sat before him, the concealing box, seeming to dance a bit as the flame of the small oil lamp in the niche nearby flickered in a draft.
Pythagoras's eagerness knew no bounds, but still he held back, enjoying the anticipation.
He knew what lay within: the tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, or Hermes Thrice Great, as the Greeks called him. Thoth to the Egyptians. Messenger of the gods. To some, a god himself.
Pythagoras cared not whether Hermes-Thoth was really a god. What he knew from his experiences in Egypt, Babylon and among the Chaldeans, from his travels in many parts of the world, was that the tablet contained the old knowledge. The knowledge nearly lost during the great flood that was recorded in the chronicles of Sumer and the Hebrews.
It was a knowledge many spoke of quietly but few had ever truly gained access to. It was a knowledge that allowed the refineries of Sardis, in Lydia, to separate silver and other metals from gold. But, according to his Egyptian friend, that was the most base of uses for the knowledge in the tablet.
It was only a small beginning. The tablet was said to contain the secrets of sacred geometry. The secrets that allowed transmutation of gold into mufkyzt, the ancient Egyptian secret of life. The Fire-Stone. Its powers were said to be beyond imagining.
But that was not so much what interested Pythagoras. Yes, the sacred geometry. Yes, the transmutation of gold, but not because he wanted the gold. No, he wanted what the power of the transmuted gold could give him: the power to pierce the veil of this world and see beyond to the eternal.
His entire life had been a search for knowledge and purity, not for personal gain, but for the sake of knowledge and purity themselves. To know everything was to become truly pure. To become…pure knowledge.
This tablet could give him that, if he were worthy enough to understand it. He had been preparing for this day ever since he had heard of the stone of Hermes.
The hermetical knowledge lay before him now, and he feared he would open the box and discover that all his study and preparation were inadequate. That he might need more years than remained in his life to understand.
Abruptly aware that he was sitting on the cold cave floor wasting whatever time he still owned, he reached out with a knife and broke the lead seals on the box. His hand trembled as he lifted the lid and peered within.
He could see only a thick wrapping of leather and fur. Gently he reached in and closed his hands around the contents. To his amazement, he could feel what lay within the wrappings, and it was no tablet. At least nothing that he thought of as a tablet.
Disappointment speared him momentarily, but then he lifted the bundle from the box and began to unwrap it. Leather and fur fell aside, revealing a cloth threaded with gold, probably from Sardis, where artisans worked wonders with gold, managing even to turn it into thread.
That wrapping, too, fell away, revealing a thickness of papyrus that looked like a ball. It gave beneath his fingers, however, and in his mind's eye he began to see the shape of what lay within.
Pulling the papyrus away with trembling, eager hands, he at last freed the gift completely.
His breath caught in his chest as he stared at an emerald pyramid no larger in any dimension than his palm. He lifted it carefully, feeling its weight, admiring its quality and shape.
But then his heart plummeted, for he could see nothing written on it. Nothing at all. Perhaps it was the light?
He reached out and picked up the oil lamp, bringing it close. No shadows appeared on the perfectly smooth surface. Nothing in any way indicated that anything had ever been written there.
But then, as he began to put the oil lamp back, he happened to pass it behind the emerald.
At once his breath caught again, for within the stone he could see symbols, symbols that seemed to be moving in some kind of dance, as if they were somewhere else, beyond the weight of gravity, and the pyramid was only a door through which to view them.
Then, in an instant, he knew. This was not some mere tablet but a sacred mystery itself. A sacred mystery left by the hands of the gods.
9
Frankfurt, Germany, Present day
Renate watched the young man from across the bar. True to his word, Assif had been able to spot his fellow geek. After four days of subsequent surveillance and a brief conversation on a tram, Assif had confirmed that Jürgen Hausmann was indeed a computer operator at Berg & Tempel, and, just as important, that he was single. Neither of those facts surprised Renate in the slightest, now that she had the opportunity to observe Hausmann.
Although he was boyishly handsome, he was cursed with a gangly body that seemed to move as if each limb were making the decision independently. That awkwardness extended to his speech, each word seeking permission before emerging.
One part of Renate felt pity for the young man, who was obviously earnest and sincere in his fascination with his chosen career. But the larger part of her simply saw him as a resource and his awkwardness as an opportunity to exploit that resource.
She gracefully lit a cigarette, after making sure she had caught his eye, and smiled at him. It came as no surprise when he smiled back, nor when—after she had fashioned a look of exasperation as she studied the screen in front of her—he made his way across the Internet café to her table.
"Haben sie Schwierigkeiten?" he asked, in the singsong Frankfurt dialect. Having problems?
"Ja, die habe ich," Renate replied, smiling as she adopted the same melodic pace. "Ich kann nicht finden was ich suche." Yes, I am. I can't find what I'm looking for.
"Perhaps I can help?"
Renate smiled, nodding to an empty chair. "Please. I promised a friend that I would find this for him, and it's just hopeless."
"What do you seek?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the chair as if fearing that at any moment she would shoo him away like an annoying insect.
"My friend will visit America," Renate said. "I need to find him a map of Boston, so he can find his relatives there, but all I can find are hotel sites. Sometimes the Web is just impossible."
"It can be," Hausmann said, reaching for the keyboard. "Let's see if we can find something more useful."
A half hour later, she had a complete map of the Beacon Hill neighborhood in Boston, along with complete directions and a map from Logan International Airport to the address of her nonexistent friend's nonexistent relatives. She even had a list of local restaurants, theatres and other attractions.
More importantly, she had a date with Jürgen Hausmann. And two hours later, she found herself trying to hear herself think as they sat in a crowded dinner club, surrounded by what appeared to be a convention of the undead. Hausmann seemed to sense her discomfort and offered a sheepish smile.
"I was very into the Goth scene when I was younger," he explained. "I must have eaten in this club six nights a week while I was at university. I suppose this isn't a good choice for a first date, though."
"No," Renate said. "It's fine. You chose a place where you would feel comfortable."
"Ja," he said, smiling. "But the food is wonderful, I promise. They have the best Maultaschensuppe in all of Frankfurt."
Renate had always been fond of the traditional German ravioli soup and accepted his recommendation, adding an entrée of roast pork with sauerkraut and oven-roasted potatoes.
Just as their soup was served, she saw Niko enter the club and take a seat behind Hausmann. With his smoldering Greek features, Niko had no difficulty attracting the admiring glances of the young women in the club. That he had donned black eyeliner and lipstick only added to his rakish charm in a place like this. Within minutes, Niko was cycling to and from the dance floor, each time careful to let his chair jostle Hausmann's just slightly.
Renate ate slowly, watching Hausmann's eyes each time Niko returned. By the time they had finished the soup—a rich pork broth
with leeks, hosting the ravioli stuffed with pork sausage—Hausmann no longer seemed to notice the slight bump as Niko sat down.
As the waiter brought the entrées, Niko rose again, deftly slipping a hand into the open fanny pack that rested on the floor beside Hausmann, extracting his key card. This time, however, Niko headed not for the dance floor but for the door, where he passed the card to Assif before returning.
Twenty minutes later Assif signaled from the door, and once again Niko rose from his chair. After retrieving the key card, he returned to the dance floor, this time with a girl who could not yet have been twenty, and engaged in what Renate's parents would have described as a Ludentanzen…a whore's dance. The couple returned to Niko's table, the girl plopping into Niko's lap. As she sat, Niko's well-timed kick sent the fanny pack tumbling.
"Ach! Es tut mir Leid," he said, pushing the girl from his lap and reaching for the sprawl of personal items that had fallen from the pack. "Ich werde Sie helfen."
"Nein, macht nichts," Hausmann replied, shaking his head as he bent to grab his pack.
But the objection was too late. Niko had already gathered a handful of credit cards and a Palm Pilot, adding them to the key card he already held. With an apologetic smile, Niko handed the items to Hausmann, who returned them to his fanny pack.
A few sputtering phrases later, Hausmann returned his gaze to Renate. "I suppose I should have chosen a quieter place to eat."
"No," she said, reaching across to brush his hand. "This is fine. As you said, the food is wonderful."
"Yes, thank you," Hausmann replied.
After Niko had left, with a young girl on his arm who would doubtless go home disappointed, Renate and Hausmann sipped coffee.
"This is good," he said, as their cups emptied. "I haven't…been on a date in…a long time."
"Neither have I," Renate said. "And yes, it is nice to meet new people. One never knows what one will find."
