Would it actually work? Was it more than fantasy or wish fulfillment? Was it only a reason to shed clothes and inhibitions and fornicate with like-minded nut-jobs who thought kinky sex would grant them power?
Martin might have leaned in that direction with all that, if he didn’t know without any doubt that sex magick existed. Adepts didn’t need the sex to increase natural powers or recharge batteries, but secret experiments had proven that sex did indeed magnify their talents on the supernatural plane.
If Kessler was their man, then Simon and Cat were perfectly positioned to stop him. And having Walton take possession of the treasure hunters’ statue, now that this Straker fellow was solidly on board, would be a sort of ace in the hole. Keeping one, perhaps two, of the statues out of the assassins’ hands would ruin the ritual.
Or so Martin hoped. Everything else, including executing the head of the assassins, could be considered lower priority. If the assassins collected the five artifacts, however, then it was a race against the clock. How soon would they perform the ritual, and where? These thoughts muddled his head.
“Here we go, sir,” Ferro said, interrupting Martin’s musing.
His espresso was now cold and he set it aside, frowning.
“The Kessler Building.”
Chapter 86
The Ballroom
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
Cat had no difficulty mingling. The diamonds on loan from Simon’s Hollywood friend sparkled to such an extent that they attracted a steady stream of admirers, some of which—male and female—made no bones about admiring her other assets, as well. In fact, she had just moved from one group of enchanted ball attendees to another, fending off subtle and overt invitations that ranged from merely suggestive to obscene, with only an occasional stop at romantic.
She stepped away, but felt someone approach from behind.
“Quite the party, isn’t it, Miss…?” The female voice was well-modulated, soft and supple with an accent she couldn’t quite place.
Cat turned. “Yes, it is.”
“My name is Doctor Harris. Forgive me, it’s Jill, Jill Harris. I forget sometimes at these charity events that I’m not at a faculty gathering where the title means more than the name.”
“Ah, it’s quite all right, really,” Cat said as they shook hands. “Please forgive me, it’s Caterina Galassi.” Cat liked the strong but not overbearing grip, and the tough skin of the slender hand. “I think all titles are equally important, even though I have none myself.”
“Someone wearing so many diamonds must claim some title, I dare say. Baroness? Countess? Princess? Come, give it up. You can’t be incognito at this gathering while showing off half the crown jewels.”
The woman laughed and her serious features softened. Her hair was lustrously blond and terribly authentic. It caught the lighting as if it were made of tiny gemstones. Her eyes flashed a brightness that Cat immediately found alluring. Her lilac lips glistened as they curled upward.
What’s this then? Is she hitting on me?
Cat said, “No, my date works for the archdiocese and he has rich friends.” They had decided to stick mostly to the truth.
“He must have brought you as a distraction, then,” said Jill. “You are the belle of the ball, my friend…Caterina. People whisper behind your back. You’re certainly the loveliest representative of the archdiocese here tonight! Not a nun, I bet.”
Cat felt the blush coming on. Why was this woman flattering her so? She had to be probing—on behalf of Kessler? Or the adept?
“What do you do?” Cat said, attempting to divert. “What brings you here?”
“Why, I’m here for the charity, of course. But I’m an archaeologist by trade, an Egyptologist to be specific.”
One of the statues on the list was rumored to have been created and lost in Egypt. What were the odds of meeting an Egyptologist here in this gathering of the wealthy, plus numerous celebrities and media types?
“That sounds awfully more important than anything I can claim,” Cat said, trying for humility.
“Not as long as you wear those stones,” Jill said, cocking her chin. “While wearing them, you’re the most famous person here.”
Cat joined her in chuckling. She was being played somehow, but wasn’t sure how. Was Jill Harris distracting her? She wanted to scan the crowd for a glimpse of Simon, but if she did the game would be up. Anyway, Simon could take care of himself. He was in his element here, able to use his considerable charm to act the society playboy—not much of an act, really—and to wield his ability to manipulate people.
“I’m sure there are plenty of famous people here,” she said. “Why look, isn’t that Tom Hanks?”
Jill turned. “I think so! Want to meet him?”
But the star had disappeared into the crowd and the lights were dim enough that she couldn’t see well enough to follow.
“Oh, some other time.” Cat wanted to get away from this ravishing scientist who, despite her innocent look, was probably a co-conspirator. But there was something compelling about her. The confidence and the ease with which she had engaged Cat made her seem more complex.
Jill took Cat’s arm and led her through the crowd away from the mingling groups in the center of the room, to one of the distant corners opposite the rounded portion. Cat let her.
When they reached the maroon draperies that covered the wall like a velvet waterfall, they were face to face. Cat’s pulse started racing.
“Who are you really, and what are you doing here?” Jill questioned, her sensuous lips making a mockery of the biting words, as if she were just playing. The pulsing music and lights suddenly seemed far away.
“I’m just a friend of someone with connections,” Cat said, blinking rapidly. She was having a hard time staying outside this woman’s personal space. “I’m here to help with a donation to the Kessler charity…”
“Sure, sure,” said Jill. “I hear you.” Then she leaned in, so close that her mesmerizing scent threatened to overcome Cat. “But there must be more. You’re being modest.”
For a second, Cat thought their lips would meet.
For a moment, she wanted them to.
Through the scrambled mush of her brain and its highly sexual response to what was happening, she realized that even though Jill Harris was certainly very desirable and she herself might have chosen to act upon an attraction, this was being pushed on her through some sort of spell. Magick.
She forced herself to cut away from staring into Jill’s eyes, swiveling to survey the edge of the crowd nearest to them.
There.
It was a dark-haired woman wearing a black evening dress, staring at them. She looked like Morticia Addams. A smile tilted her lips and her eyes seemed to flash—though perhaps it was only an effect of the lighting. But then the woman caught and held Cat’s gaze.
Suddenly Cat seemed physically enthralled, unable to look away.
The enemy adept.
It had to be. And there was more…
Her eyes widened with realization.
Cat felt Jill’s hands grip her forearms. It was a trap.
Her legs buckled.
Chapter 87
The Ballroom and the Round Room
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
Simon wondered how Cat was faring. And whether Martin’s new bird was flying.
But right now he was busy walking through the ballroom’s main exit doors with Ned, whose actual name was Raymond Stephens, chief of security for the large charity event. Simon had pushed enough and everyone who saw his Metro Card was flummoxed by it and he was given access without much trouble.
“Raymond, your boss told me about the statues. My assignment is to make sure they’re all right, so take me to them.”
It was a ploy Simon had fl
oated with Cat earlier. It might work if Kessler was their man and the private mercenary army was clued into what was happening around them. If so, they’d be guarding the treasures until Kessler had collected all five. Right then, Straker was securing the statue he and Bella had kept out of the opposition’s hands, the one from the treasure ship. The tough ex-Ranger said he’d stashed it in a Port Authority locker. He was heading to Manhattan to retrieve it then bringing it to Walton who was waiting with Bella at their hotel in Queens. From there it would wing its way to Rome on a waiting Vatican jet.
Straker had admitted he wasn’t convinced about the scenario’s supernatural aspects, but he had seen enough and had been forced to kill enough to understand that the statue was key to the serpent’s plan—whether or not Kessler was the head. In the face of inescapable conclusions, he had agreed to give the Vatican’s agent the statue so it would be protected from Kessler and they wouldn’t succeed in collecting the five needed artifacts. The demon Astaroth would remain bound. Straker’s belief wasn’t instrumental. But even a realist like Straker could see the danger of fanatics believing in the statues’ magical properties.
Plus Simon had pushed him a little when they’d explained it. The soldier seemed almost as immune as Jerry Vandenberg, however, so Simon wasn’t sure how much had stuck.
On the other hand, Simon’s push-tweaked “credentials” had convinced Raymond Stephens easily and had opened his psyche like a book.
“This hallway leads to offices and conference rooms lined up along the outside of the round rear wall of the ballroom,” Stephens said as they walked, almost like a tour guide.
Simon counted the blue camera bubbles, but it didn’t matter. If Kessler wasn’t their man, then his little charade was irrelevant. If they spotted him and tried to intercept, then he was already in trouble. That, he could deal with.
“Let’s take a look, Raymond.”
“Of course.”
Kessler was smug when it came to his security. Cameras, but there were no armed guards posted in the corridor.
Raymond threw doors open as they passed. Most of them were small conference rooms. There was a door with retinal scanning hardware locks they ignored. “These are private quarters for Mr. Kessler and some of his inner circle and staff. No access. There is also a private elevator, but only Mr. Kessler and select individuals are cleared for its use.”
“Ah. What about that doorway?” Simon pointed to the end of the corridor, where a huge set of tall double doors took up the entire space. They were fashioned of hardwood planks banded by horizontal strips of metal, which appeared to carry long sequences of carved symbols. A retinal scanner also blinked next to the door.
“No access, sir. It’s Mr. Kessler’s private conference room and only certain staff have permission to enter.”
“I see,” Simon said. He pulled out his phone and called up the camera.
“Sorry, sir, no photographs allowed.”
Simon put the phone away, but his fingers brushed a small plastic ring on the inside lining of his tuxedo jacket. He gripped it tightly.
Meanwhile, he said: “Raymond, remember our mission? Checking security.” Simon pushed harder than he had previously.
The security man blinked fast, but something kept him from succumbing to Simon’s attempts. He tried again, but to no effect.
“Do you have access, Raymond?”
“Yes.”
Simon yanked the ring and a long, thin strip of nylon—like a zip-tie but without the teeth and pawl—slid out of its hidden sleeve in the lining of his jacket. With a practiced movement, he whipped the garrote around Raymond’s neck and turned the man around to face the scanner.
Raymond was gasping, unable to breathe, his hands scrabbling up to his neck to loosen the strip choking the life out of him. His eyes were bulging wide, and Simon tried to manhandle his head so he could line up an eyeball with the scanner lens, but the security man’s struggling kept him off-line.
Simon used his own body to check Raymond’s into the wall hard, so he couldn’t squirm away.
No time for subtleties now. Simon had good reason to suspect what he sought was behind these doors. He knew Aramaic well, but he was also passably conversant in the other languages represented on the metal bands: Bobileth, Theban, Runic, and Malachim. All of them occult in nature and in conjunction with the Aramaic told him what he needed to know. Kessler was their man, and if the statues weren’t behind these doors then they’d be nearby.
Slowly strangling Raymond, jamming the resistant body into the wall, and trying to scan one of his eyeballs, kept Simon off-balance.
“Hey, you! Freeze!”
It was a pair of other security guys in suits, breaking into a run as they came around the slight curvature of the wall and caught sight of what Simon was doing. Their hands went under their suit jackets and Simon knew they weren’t handing out greeting cards.
Still trying to breach the door’s security, Simon reached around Raymond’s struggling torso and found the man’s Glock holstered there.
In a split second he had pulled the pistol. Two rounds took down the two guards, who flopped to the floor, bleeding and twitching as they died.
The scanner caught view of Raymond’s retina just then and the door opened with a click and a whirr. A strong, vaguely medieval dungeon-like scent of musk, blood, incense, and candle wax enveloped Simon immediately. He broke Raymond’s neck with one simple hard twist of the nylon strip and let the body fall inside.
Too bad you couldn’t be pushed, Ray.
Once inside, Simon took in the high ceiling, the tapestries, the massive round table in the center of the room with its thirteen ornate seats, the torture devices, the bloody altar in one corner next to the huge stone fireplace. Doors led who knew where from this nightmare room where he could only begin to imagine the strangest rituals that had been enacted. In his time, Simon had seen plenty of the most bizarre and disturbing, but this discovery was rendered more shocking by the proximity of the innocent charity event just down the hall. The juxtaposition of these settings and their likely occupants made his head spin.
On the table stood three of the vile statues at the center of the mission. He recognized them, but—if he’d wondered—the very air around them seemed tainted by rot and decay despite the golden gleam.
He spared no time to try and collect them—they were too heavy. He could take one. He could try to destroy them, if he had time, but it didn’t appear he would.
He heard shouts in the corridor and leaned out of the doorway. Two more security men, having heard the previous shots, were bending over their fellows then looking up at him.
Simon shot them both where they stood.
He tucked the appropriated Glock into his waistband and scanned the corridor.
The element of surprise was gone, but now Simon had to either destroy what he saw or run.
And Cat was still in the ballroom, unaware.
Have to run.
Chapter 88
The Ballroom
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
She was being lowered to the wooden floor.
Her limbs were the consistency of rubber.
Above her, Jill Harris’s face was coming closer, lips opening. Cat found herself responding despite everything she knew was happening.
The spell must have been some kind of fascination or allure, as they were known in the secret trades. She’d been entrapped by desire, and the spell was using its originator’s strength to steal away her own physical ability to resist.
Cat blinked fast, summoning up her own reserves of power—the same she had used when she’d been attacked at the construction site. She sent blood flowing quickly to her limbs, the feeling akin to an electrifying jolt. Above her, Jill Harris was no longer quite as desirable and her lips were curled not in a sexual query but in an ugly sneer.
Cat’s forearms were still i
n Jill’s iron grip, but she could feel the blood countering the spell’s drain.
The music was still thunderously loud, still that same blend of amplified symphonic and rap that discounted all possibility of conversation, and though Cat screamed as loud as she could, she was aware that the sound barely pierced the wall of noise surrounding them.
Then her blood literally started to boil.
Chapter 89
The Round Room
The Pinnacle (Kessler Building)
Pinnacle Industries International Headquarters
Manhattan, New York
He stared at the round table and the statues ten long seconds, debating.
Destruction?
But starting a fire or an explosion—even if he could manage it…who was he MacGyver?—would put hundreds of charity ball attendees in peril.
What else?
Snatching one solid gold statue would be his limit, by weight, and it would still get him killed. In this hornet’s nest, with the opposition aware of his weakness, he didn’t stand a chance. It was possible dozens of security guards—well-armed, trained mercenaries—were even now descending on this dungeon-like room. Executing Kessler might do the trick if he managed it, but the alarm was being sounded—albeit silently—and the magnate’s defensive redoubt would likely prove impregnable.
Simon would have little or no chance to put a bullet in the man’s head, not tonight. Perhaps he should have done it in the ballroom after all.
There weren’t any camera bubbles in sight, and if he’d seen any he would have shot them to hell. Obviously Kessler didn’t want a record of everything that went down here, not even for his own late-night enjoyment.
Unlimbering his phone, he snapped as many photographs as he could in an agonizing half-minute. The table, the statues, the dungeon paraphernalia and the bloody altar in their sealable alcoves…
THE JUDAS HIT Page 26
