And then Martin had met Simon. But even more convincing had been the journey down the private elevator to the building’s sub-basement, the long walk down a relatively modern tunnel that led to one of the maze-like catacombs with its skeletons and piles of bones forming walls and ceiling, and then the entrance to a cavern-like chamber guarded by grim-faced armed men in commando uniforms that bore the papal Swiss Guard insignia.
Farther in, Taglieri had pointed to a wooden door reinforced with metal straps and ancient rivets. It looked frail, yet somehow gave off the sense of being solid.
“In there is a demon, bound several hundred years ago by dark magic. Dark magic that we employed to seal him—or really it—for eternity.” He had paused while Martin took this all in, the guards, the door, the seal. Then he said, “Listen…”
And Martin had suddenly heard the whispering, muttering voices that seemed to dance just outside of his consciousness. Listening more closely, the voices seemed to gain in volume and in size, at first sounding like a few people but then sounding like a crowd and then a raucous multitude.
Martin put his hands over his ears.
“How do they stand it?” he shouted.
“Ear plugs,” Taglieri said, handing him a pair. “Without them, people will go insane after no more than a month of this duty.”
“What are they?”
“It’s not they, Martin. It’s the master of all demons, Astaroth, and this has been his prison cell for hundreds of years.”
Martin still covered his ears despite the ear plugs.
“Dark magic conjured him into our world,” Taglieri said, but he was shouting now. “And we use dark magic to bind him and keep him here, mostly harmless. But we must be vigilant. And we know there is dark magic that would unbind him, if we let it.” He paused, watching Martin’s reaction closely. “This is part of the job, Martin. Your job. As the head of the VSS you will be just as responsible for keeping the demons in their prisons as you will be guarding the papacy from its human enemies. And from those who are human and demonic, combined.”
Now Martin shrugged, finishing his espresso. Even Simon Pound, who’d been there before though not for decades now, had blanched at the voices when they’d all adjourned to those same lower tunnels and to the prison. Everything was the same down there as in the early days except the guards seemed harder, armed with more firepower, and electronic devices blinked in various racks mounted inside alcoves next to the bones of martyrs and Christians and perhaps even gladiators. The council members had reacted with the expected surprise and horror.
But Simon Pound had soon turned and walked away, retracing their steps until they reached the elevator.
“I heard enough, M. The voices…sounds to me like they promise total destruction. I don’t remember it being this bad.”
Martin nodded. “You have only dealt with minor demons in your history. Most of your assignments have been human, but while you worked among mortals it seems Astaroth has somehow consolidated his power and, over decades—if not centuries—he’s managed to increase the strength of all his minor minions as well. Now you know why we need to stop these fanatics who want to unbind him. Find their leader and neutralize him with extreme prejudice, as our American friends say. Destroy the statues or bring them to us. Keep Astaroth where he can do no harm. Without him, the other demons are nearly toothless.”
“Count on it,” Simon said.
He’d never been more serious. He was good at his job. Hell, he’d been doing it for two thousand years. But he still shivered when he came here. The memories were not particularly positive. He tried to visualize his last conquest—and not the one he’d had to terminate. The thought of sex calmed him.
After returning to the upper secure floor, the council had dispersed and Martin had given Simon a blessing.
“Think I need extra help this time, M?” Simon’s cocky grin was infectious, and it was back.
“We can all use a little extra, Simon. Have a good trip home.”
Simon had saluted and exited.
Martin shivered. Something about Simon…
Well, he was Judas, after all. It was hard not to like him, or what he’d become—the playboy assassin Simon Pound—but ultimately, wouldn’t he always be loathed? He was a tool to be used, but there was nothing in the manual about liking him. Yet, somewhere in the distant past the predecessor to the VSS had decided to reward Judas with a fee that would keep him rich. Making the fee symbolic was understandable, but why so generous? Had Judas somehow influenced his very first service director?
But one used the tools at one’s disposal no matter how much they cost. As long as they were the right tools for the job.
Martin checked his watch, shook his head, and poured himself a nip of Irish whiskey from a file cabinet drawer of his desk. He stared at the lighted demon map as he sipped.
Chapter 23
JFK International Airport environs
Queens, New York
Simon’s phone buzzed shortly after he had finally made it out of JFK. Even without the usual rush for the carousel, the terminal was busy enough that he could only move at a snail’s pace. Finally he wrestled his way past the throngs to the street pick-up. The car service he preferred—no Uber for him, thanks—had pulled up a comfortable Audi A8 quattro sedan, and he’d just sat back in soft leather comfort when the call arrived.
He checked the screen. “Detective Vandenberg, what can I do for you?”
“Father Simon,” said the cop, whose voice sounded as world-weary as he looked. “This is a courtesy call, since you’re on the list as an interested party. By the way, I called the archdiocese and they gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind.”
Simon smiled, picturing the scuffed Giants jacket and the understated style. Using the pretense of trying to contact him, Vandenberg had checked up on him. Of course the VSS cover was rock-solid and Father Simon did officially exist, except that Simon was no priest. Calls were automatically routed to a special answering service that sounded legitimate in every way. Vandenberg would have had to hack the VSS servers to find out any different.
“I don’t mind. How can I help you, Detective?”
“You remember the explosion that took out the witnesses and some cops, too?” His voice betrayed his quiet fury. “The media’s talking terrorism, of course, but I’m not so sure.”
“Oh?” Simon said. The driver maneuvered the Audi out of the airport traffic maze. “I imagine they would,” he said noncommittally.
“Usually me too, but I think there’s something else going on.”
“What makes you say that? Have you learned something?” Simon stared out the side window, watching his own frown reflected back.
Vandenberg lowered his voice. “I have a witness to whatever led up to that murder who didn’t get blown up.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he was late getting there, lucky for him. Saw the trailer blow up from five minutes away.”
“He may be in great danger, Detective.” Simon kept his voice neutral.
“Don’t I know it? Soon as I heard what he had to say, I got him stashed away. He’s off the radar, but he’s got a story to tell. Says one of the other witnesses made a phone call after they pulled this crazy fu—I mean damn—thing out of the ground.”
“Oh?” Simon pushed a little. Even through the phone, he could influence humans to give more than they intended to.
“Yeah, my witness says they pulled this weird kind of vault from the ground and it broke open. If what this guy says is true, this was some kind of crucifix… except…”
“Yes?” Simon pushed again. “Please tell me, Detective. What kind of crucifix was it?”
Vandenberg paused, sounding confused. “Uh, I’m not really—uh, it was, like, obscene. That’s what this guy said. And then another guy—don’t really know who, he was a member of the crew the witness had never seen before—this other guy takes a picture of the thing and makes a phone call right then, while everybody�
�s kind of nervously laughing.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, because it was so strange. Like, evil or something. Like what you’d find on a Satanic altar.”
Simon wondered how Vandenberg knew even this much. Probably the guy who took the photo was how the VSS had learned of the artifact find. Or maybe…Maybe he was one of the opposition fanatics, and he knew the thing was going to be found. Or the opposition hacked the VSS and learned of it. Or, alternately, the VSS hacked the opposition. Clearly, there were more forces here than he knew.
Have to talk to Martin about coming clean, he thought. He didn’t think he’d been told everything about the find, and how the VSS had learned of it. Or how the fanatics were onto it.
May prove they have Adepts on the payroll.
Like we do…
“Detective…” he said gently, “Your witness? Perhaps I can ask him some questions?”
“Told you, I have him stashed in a safe place, and—”
“I really would appreciate the chance to talk to him,” Simon said, pushing harder. “The archdiocese would like to be informed in a case like this, which clearly has some connection to the Church.”
“What connection?”
Vandenberg was strangely resistant to the push. Simon said, “Considering the item which started this ball rolling was a crucifix of sorts…”
It was reaching, but in conjunction with the push it worked.
Vandenberg sighed. “Well, all right, I’ll give you the address, but you can tell nobody, or my ass’ll be grass. Uh, Father, sorry.”
Simon chuckled. “I can take that address now.”
“You know, it was strange, Father. One of the uniforms at the scene asked me about the fed bigwig who showed up there and I couldn’t think of any. Usually I’ve got feds crawling up my ass, but so far they’ve been sulking quietly and staying away, which is weird. Would you know anything about that?”
Vandenberg was pulling that Columbo trick again.
“Why would I know about that?” Simon said.
“Cop said this guy pulled up in a fancy Mustang. But I met an exorcist priest with a fancy Mustang, not a fed.”
“Maybe this cop made an assumption and your guy just let him keep thinking it.”
“Maybe, maybe. It’s not like you exorcists have a card or something like that.”
And you’ve checked with the archdiocese and they didn’t confirm my exorcist credentials.
“Right?” Vandenberg said. “You don’t have a card, do you? Father Simon, Exorcist At Large?”
“Detective, you don’t really expect some phone operator at the archdiocese to look me up in her directory under E for exorcist, do you? Why would you expect anyone you could reach to even speak the word? We keep these things quiet, for good reason.”
“No, I get it, but I’m just a little confused about who I’m dealing with, that’s all.” Vandenberg paused. “I gave you full access, after all.”
“Vandenberg, you called me just now,” Simon said testily.
“Please, it’s Jerry.”
“Jerry, you called me, and now you’re playing games.”
“No games, Father. I’m just trying to figure out where you fit in.”
Simon decided any more pushing wouldn’t help. He changed tack. “The statue your boy found, it got a lot of people killed. I’m involved because of the religious angle. The fact that the item was Church property.”
He regretted saying it as soon as the words were out.
“Oh, so you were aware of it beforehand? I thought you just stopped by coincidentally.”
Simon watched the freeway traffic, weighing his options.
“There’s more. Give me that address and I’ll explain.” Maybe Vandenberg would be an easier push in person. The phone line did tend to dilute the force of Simon’s ability.
Vandenberg spoke in a rush. “This is a big one now, Father, because of the bomb. They gave me a lot of license originally, but when the feds opt out I can read the tea leaves. They’re out because they know Homeland is on their way. As soon as the thing gets stamped with the terrorism logo, they get a call. When they show up they shut us locals down. As I said, I think there’s something else going on, and your presence makes my point. But I’d say your window of opportunity is small and getting smaller.”
“So, the address? I answer to a higher authority too.”
“I figured this was all in your area of things, Padre.” Vandenberg recited an address in Queens. “It’s a day rate hotel, mid-block. Second floor. But there’s a diner around the corner, meet me there first.”
Simon called Cat’s secure line and left a coded message, then gave the driver the directions and sat back, watching the blocks flash by.
Like the centuries.
I’ve dealt with tin-pot despots and dictators and so-called strongmen for centuries, and the worst of them were those who used religion or religious beliefs as a cover for their heinous deeds. In that same category I would list those who use the antithesis of religion, the belief in dark powers and black magic and magick, and all that rot, for the same purpose. For they are the same sort of fanatics, hiding behind ritual and sacrifice and prayer to perpetuate their sinister plots and evil crimes on innocent people, who have no knowledge of their status as pawns in the tug of war that is the search for ever more power.
So the rich and twisted believers of all religions are probably no different than the rich and twisted believers of so-called evil religions, or the black arts, or magick. They are all the same, as indeed are all politicians who fill their pockets while claiming to be all about helping the people. This is why I’ve had little trouble with my conscience whenever I’ve killed one of their number, even if my own masters are themselves part of the same tapestry of muddled motives.
The upshot: I’m always willing to terminate a murdering swine, no matter who or what he or she pretends to believe and follow. The “fee” is just a dollop of whipped cream and a real cherry on the sundae. I like that real cherry.
Chapter 24
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
He stared in the mirror and saw the future.
Kessler had showered and dressed for the meeting, which was about to start. He turned slightly and regarded his own profile. His executive bath and dressing room were an eclectic mix of Italian marble, mahogany, and gold fittings. The walk-in closet was the size of a bedroom, and the dressing area would have been at home in a high-priced tailor shop. When he needed tailors, there were several on call.
The business had been kind to him, there was no denying it. But he was no longer content with the material things his endless supply of money could buy. In fact, he hadn’t been content for several decades, which was why as his operating system had taken off and started to displace those older and tarnished, he had sought his contentment elsewhere.
First it was quietly indulging his sexual appetites, then it was secretly crossing all boundaries in the pursuit of his most perverse and deviant interests and fetishes. Then, in search of ever more, it was the indulgence of blood sports, and later it was the blending of blood sports with sex, and finally there was murder as a sexual fetish. Wealth allowed for much in the way of safe indulgence.
He had come through that period unscathed and armed with a new resolve, a new interest in his own business and how cutthroat the competition had become, as well as a small cadre of like-minded companions who had attached themselves to his orbit. He had always considered himself an outcast because of his appetites, but soon found that others shared his interests, and his ambitions.
Kessler had thrived because he had released his once-suppressed ruthlessness. He was descended from Viking raiders who had carved a bloody swathe through various peaceful lands, and learning about himself had taught him he was such a warrior and that society’s constraints were for protecting the
weak. Not seeing himself as weak, he resolved to sever all restraints and set about learning the best ways to do so.
In his quest for this liberation, which had evolved nearly two decades ago, he had stumbled on magick and soon determined the difference between the charlatans, the wishful and the posers, and those who sought true power through supernatural means.
The difference was blood.
Blood spilled in rituals infused the participant with power beyond his imagining, and he had quickly progressed from amateur to the level of a true practitioner of the black arts. His orbit pulled in others who sought power through ritual, and so his own Black Round Table was born. His endless finances attracted talented individuals who shared his interests and ambitions, but who also practiced the black arts as Adepts—those who had mastered the art of using magick to obtain whatever they desired.
First they had desired power, and Kessler had given it to them. Then they had desired control over their worlds, and with Kessler’s influence this also had been granted. Now they desired everything, and Kessler was poised to give it to them, if they were willing to seek the help of the Dark One.
Kessler’s pulse quickened as he considered how close they were now. He stared into the mirror and saw the pulsing vein in his temple, realizing how the close just under the surface the fury lay.
Fury at the incompetents who had failed to obtain the idol by wresting it from the mundane hands of the Floridian ex-soldier and his woman.
And fury at the incompetents who had so far failed to kill the agent from the Vatican who had been dispatched to foil his plans (of this he was certain).
The fury interfered with his carefully-tended image of control, interrupting the influence that flowed from the rituals he had adapted from the secret writings of the world’s most famous practitioner of magick.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 7
