"He's shrewd, intelligent, and cautious. You can bet he has all those contingencies covered."
"Still, it would seem to me that any man willing to risk his life in order to produce and direct such a monumental play on the world stage would need absolute assurance of success."
"When I analyze all possible scenarios, the verses in the scrolls and those not in the scrolls, logic tells me he has that assurance, that he came into possession of knowledge so ancient there is no beginning for it. What's more, I believe he has taken that information and developed a plan that will give him the world on a silver platter—or all eternity for that matter."
"Where would such knowledge come from?"
"I don't know, but I don't think it came from some nameless little village located in the middle of the Triune lands."
"Oh?"
"Think about it. The most logical step for a new Pope making his first Papal tour would be to cement relations with the powerful. That means the European Region or one of the Transnational holdings, not an isolated desert archaeological site."
"The Vatican archives?"
"Possible. One thing for sure, though. It's no accident that the scrolls he claims to have received quote verbatim the first five verses of the Litany. He may have found the answer to the Mysteries, but it really doesn't matter now. What matters is what he's doing with the information.
Ellery pointed to an ice cream shop. "Want one?" She needed a moment to put his theory in the right perspective.
"You bet."
Sitting on a wooden bench in comfortable silence, Ellery licked her cone. A young girl approached and passed, her eye color gyrating wildly. "Whew," she said. "Where do they get the nerve? The most you kids ever did was shave your head and paint your nails black."
"The Kayman Keys. It's a subsidiary company of The Lemay Foundation."
"Kayman Keys? Sounds like a rich resort area."
"Image provoking isn’t it? The Keys have some of the finest advertising persuasion that's come around in a long time—highly specialized and panders to youth."
"Lemay? That's cosmetics isn't it?"
"Uh-huh. Just one of the many profitable organizations that the Church owns. Some of which I wish they didn't. Like Deuteronomy International and—"
"Deuteronomy. Isn't that the company Dane Wyland is under contract with? The one that built all the power grids?"
"Yep. They also built the fusion plants to supply those grids with power. A lot of profit coming out of that little enterprise."
Ellery stared at her son. "How do you know all this?"
He grinned. "I work for the government, remember?"
Half listening, Ellery watched a young man flex claws from beneath his fingernails, snag an apple from a display, and walk away.
"Did you see that, Matthew?"
He nodded. "Another Kayman aficionado."
"I meant the apple. He stole an apple."
A vague thought began to form, strengthened. Her back snapped straight as the thought came clear. The Kayman Keys. Bianca Raborman had perfected cosmetic enhancement changes and Raphael Munoz—what was it he'd said that last day? Ellery closed her eyes, grasping at the elusive image. She and Bianca and Munoz then . . . George Kayman, the subliminal specialist! Perhaps we can discuss a program I have in mind, Munoz had said to George. Her eyes flew open with comprehension.
"Who runs The Keys? Do you know?"
"Like I said, Mom, The Church of Universals."
"No, no. Who operates the company, plans the campaigns?"
Matthew thought a moment. "A man by the name of George Kayman is the head honcho. An elusive fellow, I might add. No one seems to know exactly who he is or what he looks like, but I can tell you, he's a powerful influence on the public mind."
Oh, my God, Ellery thought. Subliminal messages. She had her answer to the question of choice. Brows drawing together, she explained the proposed working relationship between George Kayman and Raphael Munoz.
"All aspects of subliminal marketing were outlawed in the twenty-first century."
"Nevertheless, that has to be what's happening, Matthew. It has to be deep or you wouldn't have been affected."
Matthew gazed upward, his eyes focused on always circling sea birds. Minutes later, he spoke. "Okay. That fits."
"The problem is, I can't reconcile myself to the fact that the Transnationals are allowing Munoz to get such a stranglehold on their young people. If it's Bianca's enhancements and Kayman's advertising, it has to come out of Tartarus." She shook her head. "It doesn't make sense. The Transnationals would never allow something like this to occur. They watch Tartarus like an owl watches rodents."
"I'll bet they do. Selling Tartarus to the Universals was the worst mistake they ever made."
"The Foundation belongs to the Church?" Ellery could hardly believe what she'd heard.
"Six and a half years now."
"Six—oh, that wasn’t a sale, Matthew. That was a funding contract. This time, your sources were wrong."
"It was a sale," he said bluntly.
Stunned, Ellery sat quietly a moment, letting the information digest. If Munoz owned Tartarus and George Kayman was on his payroll . . .
"No," she finally muttered. "The Transnationals have too much to lose to allow such a massive brainwashing campaign. Control for starters."
"Ha. Munoz and his Church, under hundreds of different names, own three quarters of the wealth in this world. It's their money that keeps safety forces in business. We have the global grid which is a dominant control mechanism over the third world countries, to say nothing of the havoc it could cause throughout the rest of the world if it suddenly malfunctioned. We have a cosmetic foundation that dictates to the young, and we have a media man that specializes in subliminal suggestion." He paused, heaving a deep breath. "All three are tied to Tartarus, whose labs provided Bianca Raborman the wherewithal to make the freezing of humans a reality—which just happens to meet the criteria set up by the Pittman Scrolls. A neat package, I'd say."
"That's it, Matthew!"
"What? What's it?" His face betrayed his confusion.
"The criteria. I know what he's doing."
"Which is?"
"We know there are far more stanzas than five and since the scrolls quote the first five verses word for word, it stands to reason Munoz has in his possession the rest of them. Or at least more than those the translation deals with. So why focus on the first five?"
Matthew’s mouth rounded with understanding. "Death. Those verses intimate dead is dead. The exact criteria required to promote his alternative of the freezing vaults—and eternal life."
"Exactly." Wide-eyed, she whispered, "Cunctando regitur mundus."
"Hesitation rules the world?"
Nodding her head, Ellery sucked in air. "Loosely translated it means wait and win and that's what he's doing. Munoz is manipulating believers and nonbelievers alike, playing to their basest instincts, their deepest fears. He doesn’t have to believe what he’s touting, nor does he have to enter the vaults. He only needs to convince the powerful to do so. Once accomplished, he reigns supreme. Millions of people are being seduced, Matthew. Millions!" Her body shuddered as she looked down at her hands. A pain darted across her chest, flowed into her jaw. In silence she sat beside her son, listening to the sounds of life. The pain faded away.
"I want to go home, now. It's getting cold," she said, rising from the bench and walking away. Without comment, he followed.
Ellery leaned against the railing of her deck, watching the whitecaps. The cut of the land on the beach side of the house presented an illusion of isolation that she found comforting. The property to her right was tucked behind high sand drifts. Her own property—stretching a quarter mile to the left—butted up against a flat-topped cliff.
Clint had purchased the beach property on their second wedding anniversary. Over the next three years, they themselves had built the rambling twelve room home, taking full advantage of the natural cove
view.
The deck had come much later. Almost one year to the day after its completion, Clint had sailed around the point of the cliff and never returned. From this deck, she had watched him go, waving her arm over her head just in case he could still see her. From this deck, she had watched them bring his body to shore; had listened to them tell her what she didn't want to hear. A part of her world had ended then. Now . . .
"We must stop this horror before it goes any further." She paced the deck like a lioness betrayed by the fettered goat. "There has to be a way out of this trap," she whispered. "There has to be."
Matthew watched silently as she trod back and forth, her face drawn into a scowl, her mouth taut and thin. In mid-stride, she pulled up short.
"The joining. We can't wait for John. We must gather the Dakotans now." Ellery stroked her chin with one hand as she concentrated.
"Why are you frowning?"
"Bianca Raborman." Ellery spat the name. "Somehow she discovered that all was not as simple with the BH Gene as it appeared to be. I don't have any idea how much she knows at this point. I do know she got to several of the descendants from the three thousand fiasco and the only way she could have found those names was through Raphael Munoz. If any of them told her about the memory—" Ellery's eyes widened and her pupils dilated. "We must hurry, Matthew. If Bianca knows about the memory, the clan is in terrible danger. Munoz will never allow perfect recall to exist."
"Vickie's wedding," Matthew blurted. "She came to the wedding despite the differences between you. I saw her talking to a lot of people at the reception, asking a lot of questions."
Ellery blinked. "You're right. Doctor Raborman has never been known to socialize out of courtesy, particularly where I am concerned." She gnawed at her lower lip. "Do you think she saw Patrick's development?"
"I don't know. There was a lot going on and I didn't have time to check out the hall. If she did—and if she's as smart as you say she is—she'd begin to ask questions. Especially since the development process is known by no one except the Dakotans. Seeing what happened to Patrick wouldn't tell her about the memory, but—"
"It would only be a matter of time before she forced the information from someone," Ellery continued his sentence.
"Someone like an inheritor who holds no love for Papa Victor?"
"Precisely." She strode toward the French doors. "I must get the others to San Francisco immediately."
Inside, she paused beside the stand that held the Bible passed down from her grandmother to her mother and to her as the eldest child. One day, if Munoz couldn't be stopped, this book would cease to exist. She shivered at the image roused. Determined to hide the tome where no one could find it, she went to her laboratory and pressed the nail head in the smooth paneling. Although there were concepts in this book she questioned, the continuation of life was not one of them. Her work in the laboratory had proven time and again that life never ceased to exist—it only changed form. A vague thought struggled to surface. Something she had heard, or read perhaps. She stared at the book she held. A frown gathered.
"Print, please," the mechanical voice intoned.
The thought vanished.
Counting the seconds, her fingers caressed the soft leather, worn to a lustrous glow from the many hands that had held it. A true family heirloom. "All the rest may disappear," she murmured to herself. "But not this one. Never this one."
Chapter 42
Bianca
Sefura brushed her red hair until the gold hidden within each strand radiated, then quickly twisted the hair into two thick braids. She coiled the braids around her head, framing her small, oval face. Jamming a final pin into the coils to hold them tight, she stepped away from the dressing table and turned to Bianca.
"There. I told you I'd only be another minute. Do I look all right?"
"You look beautiful, Sef." Bianca stared at the woman standing before her. With her high cheekbones, generous lips, and long lashes curling dark against white skin, she had a sensuous charm, but it was the clarity and depth of the startling mint-green eyes that caught and held the attention.
No little girl this, Bianca thought, as they descended the wide stairway to the ballroom below where Raphael Munoz waited. Watching the man below her, she swallowed hard. Bastard. His eyes climbed Sefura’s body like a Boa climbs a tree.
As the two reached the bottom of the stairs, he stepped forward, his eyes still riveted on Sefura.
"Can this be the little sister who loved to sit beneath the willow tree on Pelican Island?"
"That was almost three years ago, Your Holiness." Sefura bowed her head demurely.
"Hmmm. What changes a few years can bring." He turned to Bianca. "Is that not so, Doctor Raborman?"
"It does appear that way, Holiness." Bianca's voice echoed her displeasure. "However, I'm sure Sefura has not outgrown her belief in the magic of her willow fairyland, despite outward appearances."
"But the time is coming, wouldn't you agree?" He baited her, his eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. Before she could answer, he tucked Sefura's arm beneath his and cupped Bianca's elbow with his other hand. "I believe dinner is waiting, ladies." He strolled casually through the great arch and into the dining room.
Munoz watched as Sefura politely declined the wine. "You should try a little, Sefura. How else will you learn the bouquet?"
"I did try it, Holiness." Sefura wrinkled her nose. "I didn't like it."
"Call me Raphael, please. We are together tonight as friends," he said. "Bianca, I would like to thank you and your sister for taking such excellent care of the palace for me. It was a great relief to know that someone I trusted was here while my duties in Rome kept me away for so long." He sipped at his wine. "You are finished with your schooling, Sefura?"
"Almost, Mr. Munoz. We're on our trimester break right now." Sefura smiled at Bianca. "I rather imagine Bee will be glad when this week's over and I'm out of her hair for a while."
"Sef! You know I love having you around," Bianca said.
"With Bianca in Rome for two weeks, it must have been boring, and more than a little lonely, rattling around this place by yourself." Munoz gestured at large.
"Oh, I didn't have time to get bored. Bee's lab keeps me pretty busy." Sefura glanced to her left and pointed a finger. "I think Adrie is signaling a question."
Munoz looked over his shoulder, nodded at the maid, then turned back to Sefura. "You are studying genetics?"
"Heavens no! Ancient languages. One scientist in this family is enough!"
"The only reason she comes to the lab is to analyze the signature patterns of my bugs, as she calls them. She says it helps her to understand how stroke patterns, used by ancient cultures as written symbols, developed into language," Bianca said.
"Interesting theory. During the process of remodeling the palace, I found some old genealogy volumes in one of the storage rooms. There's bound to be descendant information in them that can be integrated into the ancestral files at the Vatican, but hieratic translation takes time, which I don't have. Want to take a crack at them?"
"Why don't you let your Vatican people do it?" Bianca broke in. He is leaving me. The thought leapt into her consciousness, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. In the pit of her stomach, something stirred, began to gnaw.
"The Vatican staff has other things to do," Munoz said without taking his gaze from Sefura's eyes. "The books could give you some great practical experience, Sefura. A little boring maybe, but while I'm here, I could work with you." His tongue flicked briefly, his voice lowered ever so slightly. "Show you what I know."
The girl sat transfixed like a cobra's prey.
"You know, Sef, I think Raphael's offer is exactly what you need," Bianca said. "If the books are old, you'll get firsthand experience in translations. A suggestion, however: you have worked hard to develop a fresh, unique technique. I'm sure Raphael means well, but it would be a shame to get caught up in a commonplace approach." Her fork was poised above a slice of c
hicken. "After all, old methods are . . . well, old. Don't you agree, Holiness?" Her glance flicked from Munoz to her sister and back to Munoz. "If you'll excuse me, I need to check on George. I won't be gone long."
Sefura jumped up. "I'll do it, Bianca. You two enjoy the rest of your dinner." Before either of them could stop her, she slipped from the room.
Munoz laid his knife across his plate, propped his elbows on the table with forearms up, and rested his chin on folded hands. Bianca held his gaze, then looked down at her plate and raised another bite of food.
"Commonplace, Bianca?"
"Commonplace." Her eyes met his once more. "Banal, Raphael."
"Jealousy does not become you, Doctor Raborman." His eyes were like two black stones.
"Nor does lechery become you, Holiness," she said defiantly. The old hunger flowed like liquid fire between her thighs. She could feel the grimace twisting her face.
"Bianca! Are you all right?"
His hands grasped hers. She looked into his eyes, warm and tender now. At his touch, the fierce ache jerked back its tendrils of fire.
"She is your sister," he said softly. "I have acted like a schoolboy, baiting you the way I did." He stood close to her, smoothed the dark hair with gentle strokes. When she looked into his eyes, he said, "I told you years ago that you belong to me. Always. Do you remember?"
I remember, she thought, but that won't keep you away from Sefura. I know you, Raphael Munoz. Fighting to keep her face calm, she coerced her mind into accepting his silken words.
"That has not changed," Munoz whispered. He raised his voice. "Why don't we go to the library and have our coffee, Doctor Raborman? I'm sure the staff would like to clear the table and be on their way." He pulled her chair back.
"You are a king-sized bastard, Raphael," Bianca said quietly as they strolled toward the library. "You really are."
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