The Crimson Code

by Rachel Lee

  It was after one such lurch, as he reached for the wall again, that he felt it. A niche in the rock, hardly wider than his hand.

  In the heart of the living earth, Paloma had said, the hand of God has touched the rock. Five steps past and two steps to the left. There you will find the Codex.

  If it had been in this mountain, would she not have told him? And yet he knew—in a way beyond knowing—that this niche was the marker to which she had referred. It was to this place, at this moment, that he had been led by duty, by faith, by Paloma, by Miguel and Rita and the rest of the village.

  He counted the steps, forcing himself to keep his balance. As he took the fifth step, another earsplitting crack echoed through the rock, and he felt the wall to his left crumble away. Without thinking, he turned.

  "No, Padre!" Rita yelled into his ear, although he could barely hear her voice. "We go this way!"

  "I must," he answered. "Paloma."

  Her voice rose again, but the challenge died in her throat. "Yes, Padre. I will come with you."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "This I must do alone. Go with the others. Find Miguel. Keep them safe. I will catch up with you."

  "Padre!"

  "I command it!" he yelled. "Trust in God, and hurry!"

  He felt her touch leave his and realized he was now alone. He turned to the crumbled wall and stepped into the newly revealed chamber. One step. Two. And now he felt around him, forcing himself to trail his fingers over each fissure of the rock, ignoring the sting as his palms were rubbed raw by the rough pumice.

  A gap, so tiny that he was sure his arm would get stuck within it. He reached in, farther, farther, until his shoulder was wedged in the narrow crack.

  And then his hand closed over something impossibly smooth, impossibly perfect. In the instant that his torn fingertips touched it, he knew what it was.

  The Codex was within his grasp.

  He drew it out slowly and tucked it into his bag. Then, retracing his steps, he turned in the direction Rita had gone. His heart raced as he made his way through the twisting, quivering caverns. With no one now to guide him, he gave himself over to the most primitive instincts, trusting his first decisions at each fork in the tunnel, his eyes closed, his thoughts swirling, yet strangely still.

  Right. Then left. Left again, and then once more. Then right. It was as if the rock itself spoke to him, step by step. He had no impression of where he might be in the mountain, yet he knew this angry, smoldering, quivering beast meant him no harm.

  Suddenly the stench of sulfur burned at his nose, wafting on a breeze that blew into his face. And then the darkness around him changed. Not black, but gray, like dirty snow whipping past. He was outside the volcano, and the dirty snow was volcanic ash, carried on the eddies caused by the mountain's heat.

  "Padre!"

  Somehow Rita's voice cut through the swelling roar, and he ran toward it, heedless of the loose rocks that seemed to give way with nearly every step. Forms emerged in the gray darkness, arms reaching out to him, and in a few more steps he found himself in their embrace.

  "I feared you had lost your way," Rita said.

  "I had," he answered simply, as he followed her and the villagers down the slope, toward what little safety the tree line offered. "I had lost my way. But it was found for me."

  "Now we must find Miguel," Rita said.

  "No," he replied, as they reached the lee of a fallen tree. It was meager shelter, but it was better than no shelter whatever. "We must stay here. Miguel will find us, Rita."

  "He's my brother," she said. "I can't leave him out there."

  Steve took her hands in his. "God will guide his footsteps, Rita. Just as He guided mine."

  "God is angry!"

  "If God were angry with us," Steve said, "He would have taken me in the mountain. No, Rita. We have done all that skill can do. Now we must trust to faith."

  15

  Frankfurt, Germany

  "Oh mein Gott!" Lawton said, jumping in his seat as the security guard opened the door. Then he caught a breath, offered a sheepish smile and added, "Sie erschrecktet mich!" You startled me!

  "Es tut mir Leid," the guard answered, obviously as startled as Lawton. I'm sorry. Excuse me. "Entschuldigen sie."

  "No problem," Lawton said with a sad smile. "These upgrades. They're more work than they're worth."

  "Yes," the guard answered. "I was told they were still working out the bugs."

  "We sure are," Lawton answered.

  It had been an educated guess. If the bank had a computer system and a skilled operator like Hausmann, there were certain to be an endless series of upgrades to the system. It was the way of computers and the people who used them. If the software could do this, then of course, with only a little extra work, it could do that, too, yes? Such work kept people like Hausmann employed and had given Lawton the excuse he'd needed.

  "But," he added, "I think I'm done for the night."

  "I can let you out," the guard said.

  Lawton smiled. "That'd be great. Would you do me a favor, however? Don't mention that I stayed late tonight?"

  "Um, sure," the guard said, looking dubious.

  "They've been complaining about overtime," Lawton explained. "If I file for the hours, they'll be upset. But if they know I worked late and didn't file for the hours, they'll think I'll do that any time they want."

  "Yes," the guard said, chuckling. "Give them a drop and they want the pitcher."

  "Exactly," Lawton agreed. "Let me just gather up my stuff."

  He rolled Assif's notes into one hand and hunted through the menus until he found the Sleep mode, then selected it and watched the screen go black.

  "Someday," he said, holding up the notes, "someone will be able to explain why computers just generate more paperwork."

  "Don't hold your breath," the guard said with a laugh. "Come. I'll walk you out."

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, as he rounded a corner, Lawton spoke into his walkie-talkie. "It's done and I'm out. Assif, did you get the signals?"

  "Yes," Assif replied. "We're all good."

  "You're out of the bank?" Renate asked.

  "Yes," Lawton answered. "The security guard walked in, and I gave him a spin about having to work late and just having finished. Fortunately, it seems, he doesn't know the bank staff. So he walked me out."

  "Let's hope he doesn't decide to mention that to his relief," Niko said, his voice heavy with concern. "This was supposed to be invisible, remember?"

  "I had no choice," Lawton said, the cold night air stinging his lungs. He quickly explained why and how he had asked the guard not to mention it. "He seemed like a decent kid. I doubt he'll even remember it by the time he clocks out."

  "Let's hope not," Renate said. "Okay, Assif, set the bridge to relay the bank's signals here, and everyone get back here. We've taken enough chances for one night."

  Lawton had no argument. Perhaps, he thought, in an hour or two, his pulse would return to normal.

  Brussels, Belgium

  Walking out of Frau Schmidt's office, Jules Soult felt as if he were walking on air, but he didn't let his elation show. A somber mood was called for under the current international situation, and somber he appeared.

  "We must," Madame la Directrice had said, "find as many of these terrorists as swiftly as we can. Use whatever means necessary, Monsieur Soult, as long as I can explain it legally somehow. The American president is thinking of using nuclear weapons."

  For an instant Soult froze. That was a wrinkle he hadn't imagined. "Has he gone mad?"

  "We must wonder." Frau Schmidt, who otherwise might have been a beautiful woman, was frowning so deeply that she looked at least twenty years older than her calendar age. "I fail to see how that will help anything, but you know the Americans. Patience is not one of their virtues."

  Soult pondered the threat. It made his skin crawl, frankly. "Do you have any idea who they intend to go after?"

  "Parts of Pakistan where
terrorists are believed to be harbored. There are other targets as well, but so far my intelligence hasn't been able to determine them."

  Soult nodded. "I will find out."

  Frau Schmidt looked at him from eyes circled purple with fatigue. "We must stop this, Monsieur Soult. Which means you must move swiftly to locate those at fault."

  Soult nodded. Twenty minutes later he departed with what amounted to carte blanche. Very well. So he would have to add an additional task to his plans. There would be no joy in leading all of Europe, as was his birthright, if the world were dying in a nuclear holocaust.

  Not that he wouldn't have used tactical nukes himself if he had believed it to be in his best interests. That much he could understand about President Rice. The problem lay in the fact that Pakistan, too, owned nuclear weapons and would surely retaliate, thus escalating matters. And this time, unlike 9/11, the entire world had already suffered, so there was going to be precious little sympathy for the Americans if they took such horrific action.

  Still, he was feeling very good, humming under his breath as he made his way from the building to the street and hailed a taxi. Now to his hotel, where he would meet with Hector de Vasquez.

  He and Hector went back a long way, both of them having served in the military, and thus with NATO, for long careers. They had found much common ground on which to agree in their visions for Europe's future, a future that put Europe at no one's heel. Hector's eldest son was Soult's godchild, a tight bond in both their worlds. They had become, in effect, extended family. And they both belonged to the Order of the Rose.

  But thus it was when hearts and minds met in common cause.

  He found Hector awaiting him in the hotel lounge, a quiet, dark room at this time of day, occupied by only one other person, who sat at the bar. Hector had found a distant corner and ordered them each a Napoleon brandy. Of course.

  Hector and he also shared their bloodline in the distant mists of time. Both had Merovingian claims, but Soult's was the purer, and Hector was content to be second. Second, after all, promised many perquisites.

  "How did it go?" Hector asked immediately. He spoke in Spanish, as would Soult, for Belgians spoke French. Neither wanted to risk being understood if they were overheard.

  Soult glanced once again at the man at the bar and decided he must have had a fight with his wife, for he seemed determined to drown some kind of sorrow.

  "I have carte blanche, Hector." He watched the smile stretch Hector's handsome face. "Carte blanche," he repeated savoring the words. "All Schmidt wants is—what is that American phrase?—plausible deniability."

  "Congratulations, my friend." Hector lifted his snifter in a toast, and Soult followed suit. "To the future."

  "To the future," Soult agreed.

  Hector finished his brandy in one gulp and signaled the bartender for another. Until the barman came and went, the two remained silent.

  "So," Soult said, "it will be as we discussed. We must find at least some of the terrorists. But the second part is more important. There are other enemies who must also be seen to. And we cannot ride in as the saviors of Europe if Europeans do not first feel threatened. Spare nothing."

  And that was no easy thing, Soult thought, as he watched Hector nod again. Europeans tended to be rather more blasé about these things, having already experienced years of terrorism from groups like the Red Brigades and the Beider-Meinhof Gang. A decade or so ago, there had been riots in the streets of Germany against immigrating Turks who were filling jobs. Even now, most of Europe was angry at Spain for its liberal immigration policies which allowed a flood of North African immigrants. And once those North Africans arrived in one EU country, they could travel freely to any other.

  Spain, Soult sometimes thought, was the only country in the world that failed to suffer from xenophobia. He still hadn't decided whether that was a good thing. Of course France, less willingly, now had large populations from its former colonies and a significant Muslim population.

  All of which was going to aid his plans.

  "But there is one more thing," Soult said. The seriousness in his tone caused Hector to lean forward. "Schmidt told me that the Americans are thinking of using nuclear weapons as a response against the terrorists hiding in the mountains in Pakistan. She also thinks they must have others in their sights."

  "Mother of God," Hector said. His color paled. "That must not happen."

  "I agree. I have some friends with connections inside the White House. I will contact them and find out what is happening there. Simply be aware that we do not have the luxury of time, my friend."

  "As you suggested, I had already begun recruiting," Vasquez said. "I can have teams in position within the week."

  Soult nodded, satisfied. "Finally, there are the financial details. You will of course need a contract with the EU."

  Hector smiled and lifted a large envelope from the seat beside him. "I have taken the liberty of preparing it for you. It is basically our standard contract, and there are four copies."

  Soult nodded. "As soon as I have signed these, I will arrange for your first payment. For operating expenses. Then the standard form will apply—you submit your bill each month. To me. I will take care of it. Frau Schmidt really doesn't care to know much about this."

  "As we hoped." Hector smiled. "I'll begin the street demonstrations immediately."

  "Just hurry. And if we occasionally make a mistake, but there is no proof of that…I will not necessarily be upset. One must break eggs to make an omelet, non?"

  Hector nodded. "I shall break eggs as it becomes necessary. Our long-term plan is paramount." He shook his head. "They played into our hands, Jules. Right into our hands."

  Guatemalan Highlands

  Ash fell in waves from the sky over the next two days. With blankets covering their mouths and noses, Steve's party made their way around the rumbling cone to the far side. Since they had emerged from the mountain at quite a distance from where they had entered, they seemed to have lost the Hunter, at least temporarily. And each new wave of ash buried their footsteps, as did each tremor that ran through the mountain slope. The ash sifted downward, filling in their deepening footprints.

  It was three days of sheer hell before they reached the relative protection of the lower forest, where the growth was thick enough to act almost like an umbrella. Ash sifted through, of course, but not nearly as much.

  Then it began to rain. The stuff, so incredibly light before, became a miserable, heavy mud that irritated the skin. The smell of sulfur had become their constant companion. Few of them felt like eating, except for the babies, whose hunger paid heed to nothing else.

  At least, once they were in the jungle again, fruit became plentiful, and gradually they began to harvest it and eat while they kept moving.

  But they could not keep moving forever. Weariness had reached the point that many were stumbling over their own feet. Soon they would have to halt, volcano or no volcano, hunter or no hunter.

  Finally, just as they were all about to give out, they stumbled upon a grotto from which water, clean water, poured. It was a sheltered place, partly a cave, partly protected by a thick growth of trees that blocked the sky and let only a hint of sun seep through.

  There they collapsed, and Steve said prayers of thanksgiving, absolutely certain that God had at last sent them some relief.

  Everyone refilled their water skins. In the pool below the falls, many bathed, ridding themselves of layers of ash and dirt. Even the infants received a dip in the icy waters to rinse away the grit that was so hard on their delicate skin.

  The water seemed to refresh many of them, and a number of the men set out to find food. Steve added another prayer of gratitude for the bounty of these forests.

  He bathed, too, careful not to offend anyone by removing his clothing. Well, his clothing needed washing anyway. Then he crept up inside the grotto until he sat almost behind the waterfall.

  Here the world was even dimmer, and the curtain of
falling water cut off all sound from the outside. For a little while he could be alone, and he discovered that he desperately needed the solitude. He hadn't really enjoyed a moment to himself since they had fled the village.

  The weight of the bag hanging from his belt pulled at his mind as much as it pulled at his waist. Finally he decided he had to know what the Codex looked like, especially since, according to Paloma, it had cost many people their lives over its long history. He loosened the drawstring and pulled it out.

  Even in the dim light, the sight of it was enough to make him gasp. It was a perfectly cut ruby, a perfectly cut pyramid.

  He stared at it in amazement, then ran his fingers over its flawlessly smooth surface. He could just hold it in the palm of one hand, and he lifted it, admiring the workmanship that so long ago had created such perfection and beauty from a single gemstone.

  Had Paloma's people fought over it because it was so beautiful, and thus priceless? But no, she had said it was powerful. The kind of power people were willing to kill for.

  Steve's stomach rolled nervously as he tried to remember what Paloma had told him that night they had sheltered in the lava tube. Power, she had said. Great power for anyone who could master the secrets of the Kulkulcan Codex.

  But how could this be a Codex? Nothing was written on it.

  He lifted it a little higher, trying to catch more light. Suddenly, as if something inside the ruby had caught a hint of light and magnified it, there was a flash that illumined it from within. For an instant he thought he saw symbols of some kind, but he also had the feeling that during that instant he was looking through a doorway into a place far beyond the ruby he held.

  Then, just as quickly, the light vanished.

  Steve's hands trembled, and he quickly tucked the ruby back into his pouch. Whatever it was, it appeared it was not simply lifeless stone. That lent credence to all that Paloma had told him, and in that instant he knew he must hide this ruby from everyone. Everyone, including the Stewards, for even men of deep faith could be corrupted.

  He put his head in his hands, trying to decide what he should do next. Save the people of Dos Ojos, if that was humanly possible. Hide the ruby somewhere, so it would never be found. As if he could think of such a place.