Pieter Curtis had limousined Jill Harris to the Pinnacle straight from the airport. He now stood off to the side, relaxed, knowing he would share both credit and some blame. Stoyanova’s agent, Harris, had succeeded well in Egypt. But the adept’s play at the restaurant had become a clusterfuck that killed a number of his men unnecessarily. The witch had guaranteed Kessler a success—the Florida treasure ship statue would be wrested from the hands of the insanely lucky divers. The artifact should have now been right here on this table. There would only be one more statue to collect, and Kessler was playing the location of that one close to the chest.
But instead there were still only three, and Kessler was angry—only the success of the Egyptian plan kept him from exploding. Curtis was certain he himself was in the clear. The boss had placed Stoyanova in charge of the restaurant detail, and she had failed.
Again…
Who would have expected the Betrayer to be there?
Curtis assumed he had foiled both attempts, one in the restaurant itself and then also somehow on the FDR, where more of his loyal soldiers had met their end thanks to that…that bitch.
And he meant the adept, Stoyanova.
Never mind the bitch, the problem was still this agent of the Vatican. Stoyanova’s attempts had all failed. Kessler was furious, even if temporarily content at the arrival of one more statue. Curtis was certain there was little room for maneuvering here, and his skin was as much on the line as hers.
But he didn’t want his own blood used in the next ritual.
He did not want to be put on display like an animal while Kessler’s minions took him apart, piece by piece, until madness and death brought oblivion.
With the big Pinnacle charity ball coming up, Kessler was distracted, and Curtis hoped to make his move against either his boss or the adept immediately afterwards. He would know which when the time came, unless he messed up and chose poorly.
His worries wriggled through his brain like worms through soil, but his exterior remained stolid.
For her part, Stoyanova watched Kessler prance and strut over the statues. She was reclining Cleopatra-like on her usual settee, her pulse quickening with the thought that someone would pay for failure today. She didn’t want it to be her.
Fortunately the stunning Jill Harris, newly refreshed from her difficult assignment in the sand pits of Egypt, was there to also distract their master.
Stoyanova remembered their reunion, only a few short hours ago. After her arrival from the airport, Jill had immediately rushed to Stoyanova’s apartment.
Opening her door, Stoyanova had gazed upon Jill chastely, but when they kissed it was far from chaste. And what came later was even less so…
Now they ignored each other, though with difficulty, and gave their master their undivided attention.
“It’s a stunning piece of work, Dr. Harris,” muttered Kessler. He circled the table, focusing on the statuette she’d smuggled from Cairo.
“So was the idiot I had to work with,” she said, tossing her blond mane unconsciously. “He was a filthy pig, but there was some brilliance there, too.”
“Hm, just so,” Kessler said, as if he’d barely heard. But he had heard. “The assignment required you to give your body to this man, this pig?”
She could have hung her head, but Jill Harris had always been proud and her lifestyle had made her tough without blunting the beauty. “Yes, he had use of it, but in the end I used him.”
His eyes caught hers and held them. “A rare sacrifice for the cause. You are to be commended,” he said. “You will benefit from your efforts. Your rewards will be everlasting. You will never need to use your body in a way not of your choosing again.”
She nodded her thanks. She took compliments poorly and he wasn’t one to give them lightly in any case.
Stoyanova watched this exchange with well-hidden fury that surprised even her. All Jill had to do was fuck that Egyptologist a few times. Little did she know how much Stoyanova had been forced to give up. But Jill Harris was a prize worth getting down in the mud for, and Stoyanova’s body still tingled in all the right places, places which lovers such as Kessler—and any of the empty cocoons she’d had to bed for replenishment of her powers—could never reach.
She smiled at Jill in encouragement. Jill’s generously sexy lips curled upward but only for her lover’s benefit. Kessler was too occupied to see.
Thank the fates for that.
He wasn’t the type to take second place on anyone’s list.
Chapter 81
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
Simon Pound handed the heavy cardstock gold-embossed invitations to one of the meticulously dressed guards acting as doormen just inside the Pinnacle’s main entrance, where they had checked their outerwear.
The guard scanned the cards with a hand-held unit that emitted a subtle beep. He waved them toward a standing metal detector, where his twin guided them through separately, watching the monitors. Their invitations were scanned again. Beep beep.
“Thank you, sir. Madam. Please enjoy your evening.”
Another well-dressed non-usher escorted them through the dark marble lobby to one of the banks of high-speed elevators, showing them into the waiting car. Yet another navy tuxedoed gunsel nodded and pressed a button at the top of the board.
“Their Canali budget must be close to astronomical,” Simon whispered in Cat’s ear.
It was a fragrant spot to nuzzle, he noted. He resolved to whisper in her ear as often as possible this night of nights. The Kessler Pinnacle Foundation Annual Charity Ball.
She chuckled. The navy suits were at least five thousand dollars apiece, and they’d counted a half-dozen men wearing them before even reaching the elevator.
Of course, Simon’s dark charcoal Brioni tuxedo had set him back ten times the cost of a Canali, and it was only one of several he owned. In New York.
The handmade tux contained several surprises sewn into various hidden folds and pockets, none of which was made of metal. Even so, Simon thought it was flattering to his build. He winked at his reflection in the elevator’s mirror walls.
Caterina was resplendent in a black silk Gucci gown with gold filigree embroidery, her figure flattered by its long, flowing sweep. Her slender feet, encased in black and gold Ferragamo open sandals, peeked out from the bottom occasionally, without which it might have seemed she glided rather than walked over the plush carpeting of the Kessler Building’s open areas.
The elevator opened onto one of those open areas, a high-ceilinged ballroom that seemed to stretch the length of a couple football fields. The walls alternated tall, modern-styled windows that gave the room a strange cathedral-like quality, and gold-flecked draperies like those often lining the sides of classic theater buildings.
After Vandenberg had mentioned the charity ball, mostly as a lark, Simon had chewed on the idea. Why not? If Kessler was their man, he might be able to confirm it. And Simon might be able to neutralize his plans once having infiltrated his lair.
Lair.
The word reminded Simon of the caged demons, and the place where Astaroth resided, ostensibly dormant—although the voices the creature emitted seemed to indicate otherwise.
Caterina had texted their idea to Father Martin, who made several long-distance calls to the diocese, where the local archbishop was only too happy to help out an old acquaintance from his down and dirty political days as a young activist priest. His Most Reverend Eminence the Cardinal had, in turn, made another series of calls and the result had been two of the highly desired high-tech invitation cards.
As they stepped into the growing bejewelled crowd, part of the unending sequence of elevators disgorging their beautiful human cargo, Simon kept an eye out for their host.
But Kessler was not to be seen.
“He likes to make an entrance, apparently,” said Jerry when Simon had phoned to inform him th
ey were indeed going in. “He’ll show up only after all the upper crust café society folks have. I’ve heard he probably records the crowd and watches the videos in his private theater, and I bet he’s keeping track not only of who they are but their contributions—and, therefore, the size of their stashes.”
Then he’d paused. “Hey, everyone who shows up is expected to pony up a million or more for the foundation, but not a penny less. How you gonna manage that, Padre?”
Simon had chuckled. “Taken care of, Jerry. Deep pockets can be helpful.”
“Yeah, whatever.” The cop wasn’t keen on the vague dismissal of his question. “Just keep your wits about you, watch your back, and don’t drink anything you haven’t seen other rich jerks guzzlin’ if you can help it.”
“Will do, Jerry. If Kessler’s our man, I think I’ll be able to draw him out.”
“Yeah, well, watch out for that pretty lady of yours, if you bring her.”
“Of course I’m bringing her. She’s just the distraction I need.”
And Cat was distracting, indeed. For along with the haute couture she was wearing five million dollars’ worth of diamonds.
Another favor called in, this one not from Father Martin, but from Simon Pound himself. The jewels were on loan to him from a very grateful Hollywood celebrity who made her permanent home in a nearby Manhattan townhouse. Simon knew the dinner date—the only repayment required—would make for an exquisite evening, and the lady’s company would be a fine reward. For the moment, the sparkling diamonds in their gold and platinum settings were perfectly set off by Cat’s gown…and slowly heads in the growing crowd had begun to turn.
If Caterina was embarrassed by the stir she was causing, she didn’t show it. The huge globular chandeliers cast light that caught the diamonds’ thousand faces, granting her a halo. They could already hear the whispers, glimpse the subtle pointing fingers.
Simon grinned. “It’s working. See?”
Soon enough Cat would be the focus of almost every gaze and stare in their sector of the room—leaving Simon free to do some recon work.
“You were right,” she whispered, keeping the wide smile on her face. “But look at these rocks, Simon. They’re beyond fabulous. No wonder everyone’s looking. Who is this friend of yours?”
“Mum’s the word. I promised I’d keep her out of this, but if I said her name aloud in this room there’s not one person who’d admit not having seen most of her movies.’
“Hmm, Angelina? No. Scarlett? No, these aren’t her type. Sandra? Is it Sandra? I love her…”
“Getting warm, but still cold, my dear Cat. And I’ve made a promise—”
“Julia! It’s Julia, isn’t it?”
“I’m sworn to secrecy, my love.”
He kept his tone light, but…saying my love caused a pang. Simon vowed to focus on the job now—retrieve the statues and kill whoever wanted to free Astaroth—and keep his personal feelings under wraps. At least for the moment.
Will there ever be a good time?
He had plenty of time, but as a mortal she did not.
Simon shrugged off the thoughts. A relationship between them was forbidden, but he’d always played by his own rules. Martin needed him much too much, and often.
As Cat soaked up the stares and glances, Simon began to fade into the crowd.
First, he wanted a look at Kessler himself. Second, he wanted to see if the enemy adept was here. Cat might sense her presence, but with the power of magick came various tricks, like cloaking spells, which would render identification difficult if not impossible. Third, he hoped to slip away from the festivities and search for the statues. If Kessler was their man, he’d want to be near them and the power they already gave him. Last, Simon hoped to spot the man in charge of the mercenary army of assassins he and Cat—and Straker—had already faced.
Simple jobs, all of them.
He set his sights on the full bar which was built into one end of the ballroom and weaved his way through the hip, fashionable crowd with ease. His expensive tuxedo helped part the way, and he felt eyes—some envious, many lustful—focus on his back as he passed. Those he caught in his gaze held it, their invitations plain.
At right angles to the bar, there was a stage platform from which the music came, being performed currently by a half-size orchestra in evening dress. In front of the orchestra there was a rock band, and next to that a huge DJ stand. It looked as though Kessler’s party planners wanted to span the genres, and in fact even now a rendition of some recent pop tune was being played in a strange Muzak-and-rap style with heavy backbeat and string accompaniment. Simon shook his head. Once heard, it couldn’t be unheard.
While Cat used her considerable charm and beauty to mingle effortlessly, Simon was looking for Kessler, the man himself. If he was the head of the snake, getting a look at him seemed a marvelous idea. After all, Simon had to know what the guy looked like. Strangely, Cat had shown him that the few photos of him easily found on-line somehow managed to partially obscure his face. He never sat face to face in an interview, he never posed in front of one of his businesses, and he masked himself in other clever ways: when fencing in a championship, he kept his mask on; parachuting in the Azores, his helmet and dark goggles did the job; heading out on the town, the tinted glass of his black SUV kept him nearly incognito.
How could a man so rich and so well-known have kept his likeness from the world so easily? And why?
Simon edged past the crowded bar, floated past the dance floor in front of the mismatched musicians, who—to their great credit—were trying very hard indeed to mesh their genres into something approaching palatable, and surveyed the catering line, which was professional level and clearly Kessler-owned, its servers dressed fancy to distribute the similarly-fancy bite-sized tidbits.
Simon snagged a champagne flute off a passing tray, sampled it, and smiled. Impeccable taste, of course. It was an Armand de Brignac. Seven grand a bottle, last time he had bought one himself. Kessler probably bathed in the stuff. He set the flute on another roving server’s tray.
Just curious, Kessler. What are you like?
Clearly, vain.
The food was extravagant, the alcohol as well, the music was over the top and likely to get worse, the place was palatial and set atop a concrete and glass palace that code had built. Kessler was like an anti-Jobs. The departed Apple chief had kept his extravagances, if any, completely private. Kessler was an enigmatic figure, awash in vanity and excess and yet unwilling to show his face clearly. Simon imagined him walking around with a permanently pixelated cube over his head. Perhaps the king of code could manage even that.
Simon had honed his hunches over centuries, and they’d been reliable from the start. Even the great betrayal for which he was maligned, derided, and ostracized—not to mention punished—had ridden in on the coattails of his hunch that Christ required an accomplice in his grand plan, and no one else would do.
But who was he to rehash the past? He’s spent centuries doing it, for naught.
He felt a similar hunch now, a tingle that told him they’d found the snake’s head after all. Thanks to a careless minion who allowed himself to be caught on camera oozing out of this very building and talking to the bomber.
What could Kessler gain from his freeing of a monster such as Astaroth? He already had everything a single human could ever hope to own and control. Untold wealth, power, fame wrapped in mystery…hell, with a careful hand at his side a successful political future was not out of the question. Why bring a soul-sucking demon like Astaroth aboard?
Simon had a new hunch.
He realized he had to see Kessler for himself, speak to him. He suspected Kessler, if indeed he was their nemesis, did not want to rule over the world with a demon at his side.
He wanted to destroy the world.
Chapter 82
The Ballroom
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
; Manhattan, New York
The thought itself was monstrous.
Did Kessler want to destroy the world rather than merely own it?
It was the only explanation that made sense, wasn’t it?
Simon surveyed the crowd again. A typical grouping for a charity event, split evenly among actors of note, wealthy athletes, wealthier hedge fund guys, beautiful women famous for being famous, and the merely wealthy from a cross-section of society. Plus a healthy sprinkling of beautiful people who might or might not have been simply models and objets d’art there simply to help beautify the event.
He chuckled. Hadn’t he himself forced Caterina into that role?
Where was Kessler? Wouldn’t he show at his own annual event?
And now that Simon thought about it, how did the man of the hour manage to avoid determined photographers who might snap covertly?
A small stampede of people who suddenly found the current musical mélange desirable as a dance beat went by and began gyrating to the techno version of some old soul song, completed now by a rap and some kind of hideous DJ record-scratching with traditional string instruments struggling along for “good” measure.
As Simon clucked, there was a ripple in the crowd, and the music folks stopped on a dime and went into an equally hideous version of “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”
Good choice, K-man. Original.
The reason the crowd was pulsating became clear in a few seconds. From his vantage point near the musicians, Simon watched as ersatz fog billowed in the center of the huge room. Lighting above the spot flicked on, including lasers and racks of whatever the most modern version of the Vari*Lite might be, and everyone craned their necks to see what would happen next.
Simon took the opportunity to sidestep up and onto the musicians’ platform so he could see over the heads in the crowd. A couple violinists turned to stare. He grinned, shrugging. They went back to the notes they were slaughtering.
As the music reached its tympanic crescendo, the audience gasped when the floor opened up and a man standing on a platform was thrust upward into the heart of the lighting system’s focus.
THE JUDAS HIT Page 24
