by Lynn Sholes
Al picked up his coffee, shook the now-empty container, then placed it back on the desk.
"I can call down for more," Seneca said.
"Later, maybe. There are many other gospels that were not accepted into the canon for various reasons such as doubt over the authorship, the timeframe between the original writing and the events described, or the content was at odds with orthodoxy. Some of the non-canonical gospels were considered heretical by the Church. There were the Gospels of Thomas, Peter, the Infancy Gospels, Harmonies, Marcion's Gospel of Luke, the Gospel of Judas-"
"What? You're kidding?" Seneca said. "Judas?"
"Yes, and the list goes on and on. There are fragmentary gospels, reconstructed gospels, lost gospels-you get the idea. One of the more obscure and least known is the Gospel of the Angels. It first surfaced around the year one hundred, and no author was named, which is why it came under scrutiny and didn't make the cut."
"You're killing us here, Al," Matt said. "Get to the point."
"The Gospel of the Angels is an account of the role of angels throughout ancient religious history. For instance, there are detailed accounts of how the angel Gabriel first appeared to Daniel and later to Mary to tell her she was to give birth to Jesus. It tells the tale of the three angels that appeared to Abraham, and how God sent angels to lead Moses out of the desert-all in much more detail than in the Bible. There's the story of how angels announced the birth of Jesus to the shepherds, and how they ministered to Christ after his temptation in the desert. Lots of stories we're all familiar with, and some we're not.
"In particular, there's the story of how an angel appeared to a holy woman named Veronica. The angel presented her with a piece of cloth, a swatch the angel proclaimed to be cut from the robe of God, and instructed the woman to use it to wipe the face of the condemned rabbi Jesus Christ on his way to be put to death. Tradition has it that to reward Veronica for her compassion, Jesus left an imprint of his face on the cloth."
"Like the Shroud of Turin," Seneca said.
"If that's the veil we keep hearing about," Matt said, "what's up with this command to destroy it? I would think it would be considered a holy relic venerated by the Church."
"It was, and is. And that's the problem."
Seneca turned to Al. "So there was a Veronica and a veil?" She held up her hands. "But what does this have to do with the phrase we keep running into?"
"The angel commanded Veronica to destroy the veil by fire but only after Christ ascended into Heaven."
"So?"
"She didn't."
DISTRACTION 2012, BAHAMAS
SCARROW BURST INTO THE Azteca conference room where Coyotl sat waiting. He stood stoic at the head of the table, his fists clenched at his side, his face burning from anger. He took in a deep breath. "How?"
"Shot," Coyotl said.
"He was sent on a simple mission. Kill them and dispose of the bodies." Scarrow struggled to not explode with rage. "Let me paint you a picture. We are dealing with a woman who writes articles for a science magazine and a man who makes up shit for a living. They aren't trained assassins, military commandos, part of the police SWAT team, secret agents, hired killers, gangbangers, or even members of the X-Men. And yet, they've managed to escape not one, not two, not three, but four attempts on their lives by one of the most well-funded private organizations in the world. They are either the luckiest two people who ever lived or we are totally incompetent. Which is it?"
"Well, Javier-"
"It doesn't matter. The answer is that they are amazingly lucky, and I must be surrounded by amateurs. We have lost an apostle. A cornerstone of my Ministry." Scarrow pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and moved them in circles, massaging back the ache of frustration. "Media from around the world is preparing to converge on a single spot to watch as I make the ultimate sacrifice and prove beyond any doubt that the path of the Phoenix Ministry is the only one mankind can choose to avoid global disaster. Untold millions of dollars are being spent to make this happen. We only get one chance. There will be no do-over, no repeat."
Scarrow swiped his face with his palms. "And we are allowing two people-"
"Actually, three," Coyotl said softly.
Scarrow took another deep breath. "Yes, you are correct. Three people are standing in our way." He paused for a moment in thought. "Tell me what you know about our third friend. Give me details."
Coyotl referred to some notes in front of him. "His name is Albert Palermo. He's Seneca Hunt's father and a former director of a government agency. He abandoned the mother soon after she gave birth to the daughter and never returned. That is, until recently."
"Why did he come back?"
"He retired not long ago and it looks like he just wants to make up for lost time by getting to know his daughter."
"Impeccable timing, wouldn't you say?"
Coyotl nodded.
"What government agency are we talking about?"
"This was a tough one to crack. It took the resources of a number of Groves Consortium military contractors to finally piece together a basic profile. Palermo is the former director of a group called ILIAD-the International League to Investigate Alternative Defense. It's funded jointly by the US government and a number of allies. ILIAD was established during the Cold War as a think tank to deal with the Soviets, but now its function is primarily to find alternative means of defense against terrorism. And it controls a powerful network of intelligence-gathering technology."
"So his contacts at ILIAD are how he's been able to help her figure out the tomb robbery connections?"
"Yes."
"That's not good. It presents a new set of problems. We're going to have to stop our attempts to terminate her. Striking out at her or her father could initiate an investigation that might connect to us in some way. That would focus unwanted attention on us before we complete our task. We need a distraction to occupy her attention until after the grand event. At that point, she and the other two will become insignificant."
"What do you suggest?"
He went to stand before the replica of the Mexica Sun Stone on the back wall of the conference room. He could not afford to continue wasting precious time trying to deal with this threat. Suddenly, it struck him that he had been going about this in totally the wrong way.
He turned back to Coyotl. "Where is she now?"
"Still in Panama with Palermo and Everhart."
"Does she have any other family?"
"Her mother is alive, but incapacitated. She's in an assisted care facility in Miami."
"We must do two things. First create a need for her to return to her mother's side."
"How?"
"You said her mother was sick? See to it that she becomes sicker. Whatever she is suffering from, make it critical. Speak to our doctors if need
"Consider it done." Coyotl stood to leave but hesitated. "Javier, I have one more thing to say. Your choice for the last apostle is brilliant. It must be very rewarding for you."
Scarrow smiled broadly, his anger dissolving away with the recognition that the one he chose was the most appropriate person for the role. "There is nothing sweeter than the taste of revenge, Coyotl." He ran his palms over the smooth surface of the conference table.
"Do you intend to replace Idi Amin with another so the number is still twelve?"
"No. It's too late. We will proceed with eleven. There's no time to waste."
"You said we need to do two things. What is the second?"
"You must bring Seneca Hunt to me."
THE GHOST 2012, BAHAMAS
GROVES STARED INTO THE mirror, hardly recognizing the face looking back. What had become of the virile, rugged cowboy who once confronted bloodthirsty Apaches and fierce Mexican banditos? Where was the man who could outlast an endless string of whores each night and drink more whiskey than ten men anytime? What happened to the international industrialist and tycoon whose natural vision and shrewdness generated billions of dollars and the respect and envy
of the world?
Scarrow had managed to reduce him to a ghost in the mirror.
Groves opened the front of his bamboo fiber robe and touched the scars-fading reminders of what should have taken him to the grave. No delusion. No hallucination. They were real. But he was no god as Scarrow claimed.
He backed away from the reflection and shuffled through the bedroom suite into the living room, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of the robe. The drone of the Australian didgeridoo sound machine and the smoke of sandalwood incense filled the air. Standing in front of the plate-glass windows that stretched across the entire wall, he pulled back the blackout drapes to look into the Caribbean night sky. He could see the ocean far in the distance and the starlight reflecting off its surface.
How many times over the years had he gazed into the starfilled heavens and questioned why he had been chosen to bear the curse of immortality. Over the decades, he had seen and done everything-experienced all there was to feel, smell, taste, touch. He had met the most famous and many of the infamous. If there were anything left to do or say or see, it was of little consequence now. What lay ahead seemed to hold no promise.
There had to be a reason, a purpose for him. No benevolent God could be so cruel as to condemn a man to a life of endless emptiness.
The ghost in the mirror gave him no answer.
Dressed in green scrubs, cap, and surgical mask, Groves moved silently along the corridor, its walls lit only by low-wattage nightlights. What the other residents in the huge pyramid building would consider a comfortable temperature, for Groves it was like walking in Death Valley. He missed the chill of his bedroom as the sweat from his frail body formed stains through the green cotton of the medical outfit. He feared becoming dehydrated before he could return to his room. But it was worth the discomfort to venture into the secret depths of Azteca.
This was his second middle-of-the-night excursion into the bowels of the building. The first revealed a series of sterile, whitewalled medical chambers and science laboratories filled with racks and tables of high-tech equipment. In one room-which was nicely chilled and more to his liking-five corpses lay on pedestaled, stainless steel examination tables, their bodies covered with sheets. As he lifted each covering, he realized that the bodies were missing partssome had various limbs amputated while others had been dissected. Voids appeared where internal organs were removed.
On shelves in a walk-in freezer, Groves found translucent heavy-duty plastic bags containing human body parts. The morbid sight was worse than the slaughtered Mexican Federales scattered on the floor of Renegade Pass so long ago. That had been gruesome, but this scene was ghoulish.
Tonight, he intended to explore the remaining rooms in the basement. As he passed a door that was ajar, he noticed a faint wedge of light flowing out onto the hallway floor. Groves hesitated, listening for any sounds. Hearing none, he gently pushed open the door. What he saw was a meeting room with a large table in the middle and chairs lining each side. Unlike a formal corporate conference room, this one was more of a workroom; the walls were covered with white dry marker boards. Scientific formulas and hand-drawn diagrams of the human anatomy filled most of their surfaces. At the end of the table, a woman sat reading what looked like a large textbook spread before her. She seemed deep in concentration.
As he stepped into the room, she looked up from the pages of the book and turned to gaze in his direction.
"Hello." She seemed not at all surprised to see him there.
Groves nodded as he took in her features. She had a somewhat plain face, pale skin with brown eyes, and a pointed nose. Her dark hair was long and flowed in curls down to her shoulders. She wore a bathrobe and slippers, and he got the impression that she had come here to read in solitude.
"Are you one of the surgeons?"
Groves nodded again and took a few steps forward until he had covered half the distance to her.
"I thought the doctors no longer had to work late. Are you one of those overachievers who put the surgeons to shame?"
Afraid to pull his surgical mask down, he spoke into it, feeling the hot moist backwash of his breath. "Yes, I'm working late."
"I don't remember seeing you around. What's your name?"
"Billy. Doctor Billy. I'm new."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Mary Tudor." She stood and extended her hand.
"My pleasure." He took several feeble steps in her direction. When he grasped her hand it felt small, and delicate, and warm through his latex gloves. "What are you reading there?"
She marked her page, then closed the book and showed him the cover. "It's the Complete History of the British Empire. I'm reading up on my heritage."
"So you're British."
"Through and through." She flashed a smile.
With a trickle of panic at being so close to someone who had not been sanitized and probably harbored millions, maybe billions of germs, he drew back toward the door.
"You all right?"
Groves nodded. "Are you visiting or do you work for Javier?"
"Well," she touched her chin with her fingertip, "I suppose both. I've been visiting, I guess you could say, for a short while before I travel to my homeland-England. There I will perform work for Javier."
"And what kind of work will you be doing?" Groves craned his head forward, his senses now highly attuned to every nuance of her face, eyes, mouth, and words.
"The most important work of all."
"Which is?"
"I am a Phoenix Apostle. My work is to save the world."
VERONICA S LEGACY 2012, PANAMA CITY
Room service arrived and Matt poured a fresh cup of coffee for himself and Al.
Seneca sipped on a Diet Coke. "Al, how do you know that Veronica didn't destroy the veil?"
He pulled a small spiral pad from his pocket and flipped it open reviewing his notes. "After we zeroed in on her and her story, we started scouring all known databases including the hidden web."
"What's that?" Seneca asked.
"It's buried content that conventional search engines like Google and Yahoo don't pick up. The hidden web is over five hundred times bigger than the Internet and includes university reference libraries and other learning and research institutions."
"I didn't even know that existed."
Al smiled at her. "Most people don't. Anyway, piecing together the text from a number of ancient scripts in over a dozen languages including Greek, Latin, and Aramaic, we were able to form a fairly good picture of Veronica and her life, especially as it pertained to the relic.
He paused to stir cream into his coffee and take a bite of the breakfast pastry.
"In one account, we found that she was so overcome by the image of Christ's face on the cloth that she couldn't bring herself to destroy it as the angel had commanded. In fact, she hid it away until she neared the end of her life at which point she traveled to Rome and presented the veil to Emperor Tiberius. The next time it shows up is in the possession of the fourth pope, Saint Clement I.
"From there, we found little about the relic until the year 705 and the reign of John VII. There's a reference to it being present in the old when Pope John built what was called the Veronica chapel to house the veil. And the Vatican archives revealed that in 1011 there was a scribe who held the official office of keeper of the cloth. From then on, there are sporadic references to the veil and its presence in the Vatican.
"In 1300, Boniface VIII publicly displayed it during the start of what he called a jubilee year, and the veil was referred to as one of the Mirabilia Urbis which means Wonders of the City. For the next two hundred years, Veronica's veil was regarded as the most precious of all Christian relics.
"Down through the following centuries, it was on public display during the feast of Saint Veronica and on Good Friday. But, in the early sixteenth century, the Church fell on hard times, and the veil was among many valuable objects sold by Pope Leo X to raise funds for a financially strapped Vatican. Holy Roman Emperor Charles V,
King of Castile, became the new owner and later pre sented it to the Spanish conquistador Diego Velazquez de Cuellar, governor of Cuba. The idea was for it to be carried throughout the conquest of the New World so that the savage Indians that were converted to Christianity could gaze upon the face of their Savior." Al paused to finish his pastry.
"And?" Seneca asked.
"End of the line. After that, there were a handful of fake veils showing up in various European churches. But there's no proof any of them are the real thing. As far as we could find, Veronica's veil vanished in 1517 while in the possession of the Cuban governor Velazquez."
