by Brett King
From the right, a white supermini slammed into the Citroën.
Brynstone didn’t see the vehicle coming. The impact came on Kane’s side, flipping the Citroën. The Walther flew from Serge’s hand and hurdled over Brynstone’s head. He tried to catch the weapon with cuffed hands, but couldn’t reach it. Their vehicle was upside down now, sliding across the Paris boulevard as orange sparks showered the window. Confined in his seat belt, he grabbed Serge and jerked him close. Brynstone slammed his head into the man’s forehead.
The guy was tougher than he looked.
Serge reached for Brynstone’s neck as the car spun in one sickening turn after another. Still hanging upside down, Brynstone reached with cuffed wrists and hit the release button on the seat belt. The belt snapped back like a whip, dropping him onto the ceiling below. Kane was already down here, holding his bloodied head. It was difficult to tell if the blood belonged to him or the suspended driver. From above, Serge dropped down, landing on Brynstone’s leg. Even worse? His hand was near the Walther. He grabbed it.
Brynstone jerked his leg from under Serge then kicked out, directing both feet into his face and slamming him backward against the crumpled door. There was a cracking sound—he had shattered the man’s nose and the car window at the same time.
The vehicle stopped.
Still in his seat, the driver’s face dripped blood down onto the ceiling. Groaning, Kane raised his head and looked back with a glassy expression. His pupils were dilated. Concussion.
Outside the vehicle, cars skidded to a stop, jamming traffic. Horns blared all around. Brynstone fished his shackled hands into the jacket of the now-unconscious man beside him. His leg burned with pain, but he ignored it. He reached into Serge’s pants pocket as his fingers brushed a metallic surface. He drew out a key and used it to unlock the cuffs around his feet. With more concentration, he unlocked the handcuffs.
Grabbing the Walther, he tucked it inside his waistband.
He reached between the front seats to find the Roman facemask. Kane had lost hold of it while fighting to grab the steering wheel.
Brynstone crawled from the Citroën onto the street. He rolled onto his back, looking up with sweat coating his face.
That’s when he noticed that a gawking crowd had gathered in the street. Looked to be about fifteen of them, maybe twenty.
Brynstone sighed. Still groggy, he rolled to his knees and stood.
Lines of crisscrossed vehicles were frozen in the street. It was amazing more cars hadn’t plowed into them. A distant siren signaled the approach of French police. Limping, he made his way around the Citroën.
A small man with a thin mustache pointed at the wrecked white supermini. He waved his fist and shouted obscenities.
Ignoring him, Brynstone walked around to the Citroën’s passenger-side door. He crouched and peeked inside. Beneath a blanket of shattered glass, Kane held his head, still disoriented.
He wanted to drag Reece Griffin’s murderer out into the street. Brynstone tried to open the door.
Jammed.
Spurred by the growing crowd, the little French man became more confrontational. He tapped Brynstone’s shoulder, then landed a soft fist on his arm. Emerging from the white supermini, an angry woman joined the man. She stepped in front of the door as Brynstone tried to pry it open.
She spat on his face.
Okay. That cut it.
As mucus dripped from his cheek, Brynstone brought out the PPS and flashed the gun. The woman yelped and backed away. The little man noticed the Walther. Color drained from his face. Losing the momentum of his protest, the man stumbled back before disappearing into the crowd.
Longfellow had said that music was the universal language.
Maybe so, Brynstone thought, but guns come in a close second.
He peeked inside the vehicle again. Framed inside the window, Kane made a slow crawl into the backseat. Was he afraid or disoriented? There was no time to answer that question—the blare of sirens drifted over the crowd. Now there was no chance to get to Kane and to avenge Reece Griffin’s murder.
Another time.
Brynstone darted into the crowd. Frightened people collapsed on each other to clear a path for him. He hurried down the Rue du something or other, the name spelled in white letters on a blue sign on the rock wall, but he’d already forgotten it.
He cut across the street.
That’s when a vehicle squealed its brakes behind him.
Bringing out the Walther, he turned to see a European Ford Cargo, the truck’s white surface tattooed with green and blue graffiti. Were these good guys or bad guys? He got his answer when the driver opened the door and dropped to the street, armed with an assault rifle. Double doors opened in back. Four men scuttled out with Steyr AUGs aimed at Brynstone.
“Drop your weapon,” the driver growled with a faint accent. He was an intense-looking man with a wide forehead and thick eyebrows. “Then hands behind your head. Do it.”
Okay, Brynstone thought, let’s explore my options here.
He was outmanned, so gunfire wouldn’t be a good move. Next idea? He could make an escape to the left. It seemed workable until a second car cut across the street from that direction, rolling onto the sidewalk. Three men jumped out, also training their weapons on him.
At that point, his options dropped into the toilet.
Brynstone lowered the PPS. He cupped his hands behind his head.
The passenger door opened.
A figure climbed down and strolled around the aging cargo truck, her body cutting through twin headlight beams. Her face came into view.
Nessa Griffin.
Disgusted, Brynstone shook his head. “How many people do you have working for you?”
“Three fewer after your car wreck. I’m not happy about losing Kane and the others to the Police Nationale.”
“I liked you better when you were an archaeologist.”
“You never liked me. And archaeology doesn’t pay for shite.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t land your ass in jail.”
Griffin laughed. “Jaysus, you’re adorable, John Brynstone. What a shame you’re gonna die tonight.”
Hearing footsteps from behind, Brynstone turned. He caught sight of a man with a handheld Taser. The current was fast and brilliant as the barbs stabbed his back and shoulder. It rocketed inside his muscles, sending him into involuntary contractions. His head reared back as he yelled and dropped to the sidewalk on his knees, still shaking.
He couldn’t catch his breath. All his muscles were in revolt, focused on collapse.
Someone rolled him onto his side. They pulled the probes, leaving twin puncture wounds on his skin. In a sweaty haze, he saw Griffin standing over him, hands fixed on her hips.
“Load him in the truck,” she called. “Let’s get out of here.”
PART II
The Keeper
The truth is a snare: You cannot have it, without being caught. You cannot have the truth in such a way that you catch it, but only in such a way that it catches you.
—Søren Kierkegaard
Chapter 16
New York City
6:34 p.m.
Cori had never been happier to see her little brother. Opening the door to the Resnick apartment, she hugged him tightly, not wanting to pull away.
“What’s wrong?” Jared Cassidy asked. “You haven’t been like this since Mom died.”
She closed the door. Walking down the oak-framed hallway, she ran her fingers through her short blonde hair and said, “I’m still trying to sort it out.”
She hadn’t seen Jared in three months, though they talked on the phone a couple times a week. The kid was successful. At twenty-five, he had quit a job as an investment banker to take work in-house with a client of his former banking firm. Dressed in a black pinstripe power suit
, Jared wore a nondescript white dress shirt with a red patterned tie and sported a sleek professional hairstyle. She remembered back in high school when his brown hair was disheveled and he owned one suit. Now he had a closet full of them.
Sliding off his suit coat, he looked around.
“Who lives here?”
“A friend.”
Jared noticed Shay on the floor playing with ponies.
“Oh, wait a minute. That’s the girl, isn’t it?”
“Her name’s Shayna Brynstone.” Cori tugged on his arm, dragging her brother to the kitchen. “Listen to me first, okay? Jared, please?”
“That’s the girl,” he repeated, looking back. “The one you’re obsessing over.” He leaned against an island in the center of the brightly lit kitchen, placing both hands flat against the speckled granite countertop. “Her parents know she’s with you?”
“No.”
“So this is Shayna’s home?”
“No. Look—”
“This is serious,” he said, cutting her off. “The mom doesn’t know her kid is here. You realize that’s kidnapping?”
“Some men shot her mother today.”
“What?”
“They tried to kidnap Shay outside her school. They shot Kaylyn Brynstone. We got out of there.”
He pulled out a chair and dropped onto it. Loosening his tie, he said, “Cori, this is crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Do you know who wanted to kidnap her?”
“I need to tell you something,” Cori said, taking a seat. “Should have told you back when it happened.”
He cocked his head, listening.
“This happened after Mom died of leukemia. You were on vacation during the Christmas holiday with Dad and his girlfriend.”
“Yvette.”
“Yeah, Yvette. Anyway, I met this man named Edgar Wurm, a mathematician and a cryptanalyst. He worked for the government. He was studying this thing called the Voynich manuscript.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“In, um, a psych hospital.”
“You were working there?”
“Not exactly. It’s a long story. Anyway, I met Wurm when he was a patient.”
“If the guy was a mental patient, maybe he was telling a bunch of lies.”
“Trust me, Jared. The guy was brilliant. Wurm knew about Mom’s work. You know her last book, The Perfect Medicine? He’d read it.”
“The one you helped her research.”
She nodded. “He was studying the Radix. It was this root—”
“I read Mom’s book,” he answered. “I know about the Radix.”
“Then maybe you know this,” Cori said, adjusting an orange in a bowl of fruit. “The Radix could be used to create something called a chrism. It was a special mixture based on different ingredients. According to legend, the White Chrism could heal. The Black Chrism could kill.”
“Sounds trippy.”
“I’m serious, Jared. I admit, I didn’t believe this stuff at first.”
“But Mom did.”
“Yeah, Mom did. And so did a man named John Brynstone.”
“The little girl’s dad?”
“Exactly.” She leaned onto the table with crossed arms. “Actually, Brynstone didn’t believe at first. That guy I mentioned earlier? Edgar Wurm? He and Brynstone worked together to find the Radix. Everything turned bad after that.”
“What happened?”
“I was with Wurm. He was murdered.”
“When?”
“Five years ago this coming Christmas,” she said. “That’s what I’m telling you. Wurm died.” Cori glanced down, twirling hair around her finger. “Using the Radix, John Brynstone was able to create the White Chrism. He gave it to his daughter. The White Chrism saved her.”
“Why not use it to save Wurm? He died, right?”
“He swallowed a sliver of the Radix, but he was never given the White Chrism. John gave the medicine to Shayna and it changed her.”
“Changed her how?”
“Hard to explain.” She pursed her lips, then cut off her words.
Shayna walked into the kitchen.
“Cori, is everything okay?” she asked.
“Everything’s terrific, sweetie.” She tapped her brother’s arm. “This is Jared.”
“Your brother?”
“Sure is. Can you say hi?”
“Hi, Jared.”
He gave her a smile.
“Why don’t you play a little more?” Cori said to Shayna. “Can you do that?”
“I’m hungry. Can I have that banana?”
“Sure thing.” Cori snatched it from the bowl. She peeled the skin halfway from the top and handed it to Shay. The girl turned and skipped back to the living room.
“Cute kid,” Jared said. “She know about her mom?”
“Not sure.”
“They shot her. Did she die?”
“I can’t find out. I’ve called a couple hospitals.”
“So, bad guys come in and open fire outside a school, start blowing people away. Any idea who they are?”
She shook her head. “I thought CIA at first.”
“C-I-A? Are you serious?”
“Edgar Wurm claimed one time that the director of the CIA wanted the Radix.”
He laughed. “Crazy guy told you about a government conspiracy, huh? Did he say anything about Roswell or the Bermuda Triangle? Maybe how Lee Harvey Oswald killed JFK ’cause he knew where to find the Radix?”
“Can you not be a dick right now?” she pleaded. “Do that one thing for me. Okay?”
His voice lowered. “Sorry, Cor. Tell me what you were saying.”
“Might not sound like it to you, but Wurm wasn’t crazy when I met him. Not much, anyway. You know that whole thing about a fine line between genius and insanity? That was him. Call me crazy, but I believed him about the CIA.”
“So, the guys with guns at the school. You think they were CIA officers?”
“Not anymore I don’t. I have no clue what to think right now.”
“Did you call Dad? Ask him about this?”
“Right,” she muttered. “How do you ask somebody for advice when he refuses to talk to you?”
“He’s still angry about you leaving Johns Hopkins.”
“He’s angry about everything I do. I remind him of Mom.”
“Come on. That’s not fair.”
“I don’t want to get into it. I need to figure out what to do here.”
“Tell me something.” Jared leaned forward with a weight coming over his face. “What exactly are you mixed up in, Cori?”
Queens, New York
6:36 p.m.
“We’re working on finding that girl, Mr. Director,” Stephen Angelilli said into his cell, hustling through LaGuardia Airport. “For now, we have NYPD’s cooperation as well as the hospital in withholding details about Kaylyn Brynstone. We’ll determine how long we want to contain the story. We’re in the process of initiating contact with Cori Cassidy, the woman we identified as assisting the child at the school.”
“Let me get back to that,” CIA Director Mark McKibbon said. “Jason Drakos was killed in his car. Did you say Ms. Cassidy retrieved his phone and tried to call in?”
“Yes, sir. She got a busy signal because we jammed the phone after the Drakos hit. We turned off the jamming device and back-traced the call. We’ve been able to track the phone.”
The director interrupted, saying he needed to take another call. Angelilli agreed to hold.
Walking at a brisk pace, he looked around. LaGuardia wasn’t bad today, thank God.
He navigated around a young couple, tanned and rested, as they strolled with vacation luggage. Black hair pulled
back in a ponytail, the woman reminded him of a girl he’d dated in college. This one had mesmerizing green eyes. Passing them, he shared an interested glance with the woman, Angelilli giving a half smile. He allowed his mind a quick diversion, imagining her look in a black bikini. She was a good twenty years too young, but he never allowed reality to interfere with fantasy.
His reverie was interrupted when Patrick Langston joined him.
“We apprehended the suspect, sir,” he said. “Follow us.”
The tanned woman recognized the urgent tone in Langston’s voice. She seemed impressed.
Angelilli followed Langston while another agent, Jack “Ripper” Rickerson, held a door open. It led down a long white corridor and curious travelers—including the green-eyed woman and her boyfriend—took a peek before the door closed.
Angelilli darted up a flight of stairs after the younger man. Director McKibbon came back on and said he had to take a meeting with Andrew Peterson, the director of the National Security Agency. A three-star general, he had replaced the late James Delgado as DIRNSA. Peterson was a former sniper and Angelilli could only imagine the stories the guy could tell. Not that he would. The NSA wasn’t known for storytelling. McKibbon apologized for once, then asked for another update in an hour before ending the call.
Angelilli tucked away the phone and caught up to Langston.
The officer touched his earpiece. “Right this way, sir. Behind that door. LaGuardia security assisted in apprehending him.”
“Him?”
Angelilli was expecting to see Cori Cassidy. He was under the impression she had the phone.
Langston opened the door for Angelilli. “He’s waiting for you, sir.”
Inside the room, a man in his early fifties was seated behind a table. He had a round face and slicked-back hair. Three CIA officers and two airport security personnel stood around him. The guy looked ashen. A cell phone rested on the table in front of him.
