The False Door

by Brett King

  “Controlling things.”

  Strange answer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think of me as the puppet master, John.”

  He glanced at Cori. She had a puzzled expression. He looked back at the monitor.

  “Wait. You’re working with Nebola?”

  “Not at all,” Wurm corrected. “Nebola is working for me.”

  “I knew it!” McHardy shouted. “I’ve always said the bastard couldn’t be trusted.”

  Fighting off surprise, Brynstone put it all together.

  “Last February in Central Park, you asked me to help find the helmet pieces.”

  “I wanted you because you’re the best, John. Three years ago, Nebola sent a team to help me take out a Metropolitan Police vehicle. We recovered the other half of the chrism formula from Scotland Yard. After that, I worked with the same team to track down the helmet pieces. Time after time, it was a miserable failure.”

  Off camera, Nebola said, “Our team pulled off a successful operation in Barcelona.”

  “That was a straightforward job,” Wurm answered. “A simple break-in at a mayor’s office. Even at that, they garbled it with a security guard.”

  “I hire good men,” Nebola said. “If they screw up, I get rid of them. Look at Markus Tanzer and that Dutch commando, Abder Visser.”

  “After the first team failed,” Wurm continued, looking at the camera again, “the Shadow Chapter brought in a special operator. She fared only slightly better.”

  Brynstone looked down at Raja. She closed her eyes. Didn’t say a thing. Under normal circumstances, the woman would protest that statement. Right now, with explosives strapped to her body, she remained silent.

  “But some operations require the Brynstone touch. Your discovery under Père Lachaise Cemetery? That was a masterwork.”

  “Is Nessa Griffin part of your team?”

  Wurm chuckled. “Oh, God, no. I would not give a red cent to Math McHardy or his minions.”

  McHardy adjusted his tie, trying to appear indifferent.

  “I wanted your help, John, because you succeed where others fail. The Père Lachaise operation offered the added bonus of getting you out of New York while we abducted your daughter.”

  “You played me.”

  “With your cooperation, I might add.” Wurm peered into the camera, his eyes dancing under a hedge of black eyebrow hair. “But there’s more bad news. Like the false door, nothing is as it appears.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A serious cast came over his face. “Now is the time, John.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To tell you the truth. I’m afraid you’ve been misled. That document you hold in your hand? It is not the formula for the Black Chrism.”

  “Yes, it is,” Cori called, coming over.

  On-screen, Wurm raised a piece of vellum that matched the one from the sarcophagus. It was the top portion of the document that Joseph of Arimathea had torn in half centuries ago. In a dry tone, he said, “This is the Black Chrism.”

  Cori peered at the monitor. “You’re mistaken, Edgar. That’s the one you and I found.”

  “Yes, it is,” Wurm said. “Since that time, only a handful of people have seen it. Fortunately, I got it back. It belongs to me now.”

  “Maybe,” Cori said, “but you’re holding the formula for the White Chrism. We found the Black Chrism down here.” She pointed at the vellum in Brynstone’s hand.

  Wurm chuckled. “Cori, I’m afraid I have to say the three most difficult words in the English language: I was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you remember, Cori, we discovered the torn Scintilla under challenging circumstances. We were stressed and sleep deprived. The descendants of Cesare Borgia were hunting us. On top of it all, it was dark when I finally had a chance to translate the formula. Conditions were far from ideal. I translated the Aramaic script, reading aloud the ingredients to make the chrism. You stood beside me, texting the information to Brynstone.”

  “I remember.”

  “Years later, after I recovered this document from Scotland Yard, I realized my error. I had read the words White Chrism on this document and translated them as you texted.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What I saw was the heading for the bottom half of the Scintilla—the missing part. Much later, under better conditions, I realized that we had discovered the formula for the Black Chrism. That’s what you texted—”

  “No,” Brynstone muttered.

  “Afraid so, John. My suspicion was confirmed a moment ago when you held your half of the Scintilla to the camera. I’m holding the Black Chrism formula. You’re holding the formula for the White Chrism.”

  John Brynstone was reeling. His mouth went dry as his chest coiled up. If Wurm was right, it meant that Brynstone had given Shayna the Black Chrism, not the White Chrism.

  “Why would you do this, Edgar?” he demanded. “When we talked in Central Park, you knew back then that I gave the Black Chrism to my daughter.”

  “Yes, I did.” Wurm raised the child from his knee, asking Nebola to take Shayna.

  “You should have told me, Edgar.”

  “I promised myself I would tell you when the time was right. Now is that time. I have confessed everything. I want to understand what you did to your daughter. Like Quintus and the others, Shayna has a remarkable yet terrible gift. I want to study her.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  “Sorry, John. Shayna is more important than you understand. You want her because she brings a sense of normalcy to your life. Cori wants her because the girl makes her feel complete in a strange and complicated way. I want her because I need to understand her power. Believe me, I will do all I can to exploit it.”

  “Don’t touch my daughter,” Brynstone growled.

  “She’s part of a greater vision now, John. Shayna Brynstone is the living embodiment of the Black Chrism in the twenty-first century.”

  Cori shouted at the screen, “You’re insane, Edgar!”

  “Considering that we met in a psychiatric hospital, the same might be said of you. It’s better that you die.”

  “You won’t kill us,” Brynstone said, waving the vellum. “You’re a collector. You want it. You need the White Chrism.”

  “You keep it. I have the formula recorded on video.”

  “No, Edgar.”

  “Goodbye, John. Goodbye, Cori. Believe it or not, I respect you both.”

  Chapter 52

  3:26 a.m.

  Brynstone scrambled around Rashmi Raja. He had to move fast if he hoped to deactivate the explosives before Wurm pressed the switch. Ducking down, he brought the clippers from his pocket, drawing them out like a gunslinger going for his revolver.

  Cori followed his lead and scooped up the cutters McHardy had dropped on the floor. “Show me, John. Which one?”

  It was faster to move than to speak. Brynstone took her hand and slid her cutter around the wire.

  Raja’s legs trembled hard. She looked pale and more ready to collapse than before.

  “Hold steady,” Brynstone barked as he moved around to her right side. No time to breathe. No time to think. Taking his cutter, he positioned it around the wire.

  Edgar Wurm saw Brynstone dart out of view. He reached across the table and grabbed the detonation switch.

  “What are you doing, mister?” Shayna Brynstone said, coming over.

  “All that is necessary.” Wurm shot a look of aggravation at Nebola. “Get her out of here.”

  Nebola hurried over and grabbed her arm. “Come with me.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Go with him, Shayna,” Wurm soothed. “Be a good girl.”

  He glanced back at the monitor. Cori Cassidy was down on her
knees. Her youthful face was creased with worry. Was she praying? Didn’t matter.

  Goodbye.

  Wurm’s thumb pressed the metal switch.

  Click.

  Click.

  Nothing.

  On the screen, Cori stared at the camera. Wurm glared back at her.

  “Damn it,” he snarled, tossing the detonation switch across the room. Knocking over his chair, Wurm jumped to his feet and moved to the door. Shoving aside Nebola and the child, he hurried into the hallway.

  Running down the corridor, he turned the corner and found Erich Metzger leaning against the wall, talking to his assistant, Franka, on the phone.

  “Go to the catacombs immediately,” Wurm demanded. “Get down there and kill John Brynstone.”

  In a serene voice, Metzger said, “Wasn’t that the purpose of the explosives?”

  “Brynstone must have deactivated them.”

  “I warned that it is dangerous to underestimate me,” Metzger said, closing the phone. “It’s almost as dangerous to underestimate Brynstone. If given time, he can find his way out of any trap.”

  “I’ll triple your price,” Wurm promised, red-faced. “Now kill Brynstone.”

  “It will be my distinct pleasure.” Without another word, Metzger turned and sprinted down the stairs.

  Marching back down the hallway, Wurm returned to the office. Nebola was standing near the bank of monitors. Shayna was back in the swivel chair, knees curled to her chin, watching him.

  “Get out of the way,” Wurm said, shoving Nebola.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Wurm.”

  “Can I see my daddy?” the girl asked.

  “Hush,” Wurm said, hunching over to consult the monitors.

  On-screen, Brynstone darted around Rashmi Raja. He slipped through the false door. Safe now, the Indian woman ripped off the headpiece and pitched it to the floor, then stripped the cameras from her shoulders. The image went blurry, then all three monitors turned instantly black. The image from the head cam remained on one screen. It showed the ceiling above the false door, picking up a visual from where Raja had thrown it down.

  He glanced at another monitor and saw Metzger running across the catacombs near the divided staircase.

  Wurm was furious. “You failed, Viktor. You have failed me. You have failed the Shadow Chapter. I can no longer tolerate your incompetence.”

  “How can you call me incompetent?” Nebola shouted back. “I abducted the Brynstone child for you. I made sure helmet artifacts were discovered. I even got you a look at the White Chrism formula.”

  “Sorry, Viktor. The Shadow Chapter no longer has need for your services.”

  “You’re going to kill me?”

  “Think of it as closure, if that makes any sense to you.”

  Wurm glanced at the monitor. A blur of Cori Cassidy and Rashmi Raja came into view as they stepped over the camera and escaped through the false door.

  Wurm heard a soft whirling sound and looked over at the swivel chair. It was spinning. An abandoned headset rested on the seat. Shayna Brynstone was gone.

  He glanced at the door. There was no sign of her.

  Wurm started to chase her. From behind, Nebola tackled him. Both men crashed into a table, and Nebola rolled into the hallway.

  “Run, Shayna,” Nebola called. “Run!”

  Full of rage, Wurm made it to his feet and kicked Nebola in the ribs. He glared at the fallen man. “You’ve made colossal mistakes, Viktor, but letting Shayna go free is your biggest yet. Why did you do it, anyway? I didn’t think you cared about that child.”

  “I don’t give a shit about her,” he groaned, holding his side. “But if you’re going to kill me, I’m going to go down pissing you off.”

  “You’re deplorable,” Wurm said.

  He hurried to check the monitors. On one screen, Shayna Brynstone scurried through the first level of the catacomb. Wurm glanced at another monitor. The screen showed Metzger emerging from the shadow of a pillar with a gun in his hand. He stood twenty feet from the little girl.

  Metzger’s head snapped around.

  He heard her coming.

  “Daddy?”

  John Brynstone was halfway down the stairs outside the false door when he heard his daughter cry out, her words echoing off the stone walls. What was she doing down here?

  “Daddy? Where are you? I can’t find you.”

  “I’m coming, Shayna.” Hustling past the Hero door, Brynstone stopped and listened. Frantically looking around, he didn’t see her. He heard another cry, her words sounding hoarse and desperate and small. She seemed closer now, but still distant.

  “Shayna, where are you?”

  He couldn’t hear her. He called her name again.

  No answer. God, where was she?

  “John,” Cori called as she hurried to the Hero door. “Where’s Shay?”

  “Can’t find her.”

  Raja joined them at the massive door. McHardy caught up.

  A scream. “Monkey Guns.”

  “That your daughter?” Raja asked.

  “She’s here somewhere. Can’t locate her voice.”

  “What’s a Monkey Guns?” McHardy asked.

  “An imaginary friend,” Cori answered. “Let’s split up and search for her.”

  “The three of you go together,” Brynstone ordered. “Search the first level. I’ll check the main tomb.”

  He sprinted around the divided staircase, then darted through the façade bearing images of Medusa and the crowned serpents. There was no sign of her near the sarcophagi or huddled in the shadows of the corner.

  He checked the U-shaped corridor that housed rows of loculi. Sprinting across planks near the west wall, he stopped when he heard her voice again. There was no mistaking it this time—Shayna was not far away, on this level. How had he missed her?

  He sprinted back toward the divided staircase. He took two steps before stopping again. His daughter screamed, her voice tinged with such fright that she seemed to be alive inside a nightmare.

  “Monkey Guns! Monkey Guns!”

  Her words came out muffled, but he tracked her voice. She wasn’t on the first level with the others. Her voice echoed from beyond the Hero door. Shayna was calling from the chamber up by the false door.

  Heading in that direction, he made it to the Hero door and came to a halt as he looked up the stairs. He slid the backpack from his shoulders and tossed it behind him.

  Erich Metzger stood at the top of the stairs, clutching Shayna’s wrists in one hand. Her face was bright red as she cried.

  Chapter 53

  3:29 a.m.

  Rashmi Raja prided herself on keeping her cool. But this ordeal tonight pushed her too close to the edge. Remaining still while the others had cut wires and deactivated the explosives, she hadn’t wanted to move an inch until the vest had been stripped off her body. She knew she was safe now, but the stress of facing the German man and the terror of wearing a bomber’s vest left her feeling sick and numb. Still unsettled, she acted self-assured around Cori and McHardy.

  Looking for Brynstone’s daughter was a growing frustration. Where is she? Imagine a little girl in a place like this, frightened and lost in the shadows.

  Raja and the others had not heard the child cry out for a couple minutes as they searched the first level. Sound was elusive in this place. You could pick up an echo in one part of the catacombs but move somewhere else and hear nothing.

  Raja started up the spiral staircase, leaving McHardy and Cori to search near the vestibule. She peeked inside a slanted window, making certain that the little girl hadn’t fallen down the deep shaft. It was a little morbid, but it seemed like a good idea to at least check. She waved the flashlight around the shaft, but there was no sign of anyone at the bottom. When she returned to the vestibule, Cori looked
at her with trepidation. She could tell the woman had the same thought about the Brynstone girl falling into the shaft.

  “Not there,” Rashmi whispered.

  McHardy frowned. “Brynstone should blame himself for this mess.”

  “John didn’t know Edgar would betray him,” Cori shot back.

  With smug assurance, he said, “The Wurm has turned. Did that surprise anyone?”

  “Let’s concentrate on finding Shayna,” Rashmi advised.

  Heading toward the triclinium, Cori said, “You two check outside. I’ll see if John has had any luck.”

  John Brynstone took one measured step after another up the stone staircase. He didn’t blink. Seeing Metzger with Shay turned his stomach, and he had to fight a swell of rage. He couldn’t admit to the fear, but it was there, too, deep and raw inside him. Metzger was an expert with firearms and also a formidable fighter. He could kill with or without a weapon.

  “Let go of her, Metzger,” he said in a cool voice.

  “Daaaaddy,” she cried at the top of the stairs. “He’s here. Monkey Guns caught me and he won’t let go.”

  Metzger grinned. “Isn’t she precious?”

  “Daddy, help me.” Shayna tried to drop to her feet, but Metzger held her wrists, stretching her arms above her head.

  “Monkey Guns won’t let go.”

  The assassin’s dark eyes flickered. “Your daughter has a pet nickname for me. I must confess Monkey Guns makes no sense, but such are the ways of children. I’m flattered she remembers me.”

  “Damn it, Metzger,” Brynstone growled. “Let her go or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what, Herr Doktor Brynstone?”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  Another smile. “Promise you’ll try? You mean it? Will you try your absolute best to kill me?”

  Games. This twisted bastard loved his games.

  “Our good friend, Herr Doktor Wurm, is watching,” Metzger said.

  That’s when Brynstone spied the small camera on the stairs. Raja had worn it as a headband. The camera was propped near the assassin’s foot, angled to pick up a shot of Brynstone.